Forged by Fire
by bayre
Summary: Mistaken identity lands Sam in prison leaving Dean on the outside struggling to free his brother. Prison isn't a good place for a hunter, especially when not all the inmates are human. Locked in a cage Sam clings to the edge of sanity.
1. Prologue

My thanks to deej1957, anickamarie and ajcaddick for the great beta! kumaproogey made a wonderful vid to go with this fic, it and the amazing art for this fic are posted on my website, the link there is on my profile page. This story is next in the _Two Souls _verse and picks up a few months after _Fire and Blood_.

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Prologue

It came out of the home of demons and roamed the land when the first few primitive, ruddy skinned humans trekked down from the colder northern pole cap and started to settle in the wild, rugged mountains. The area would later be known as Black Hills. The name was bestowed on that piece of land because of the way dark evergreens made it appear black from the distance. The demon thought it fitting. It swept across the land, from time to time igniting it with its special gift. Delight filled it when the great flames swept over the land, burning out the old, creating the new.

A second group of people, how it hated those beings and wanted nothing more than to burn them from the land, these with paler skin moved across the land eventually. There were wars and wrath between the two groups of humans, much to the demon's entertainment. Despite its best efforts and the warnings of the first people, the lighter skinned ones settled on the land. The land belonging to a demon.

It dug in, staking out a plot and curling into the ground, claiming it, _owning_ it. Whatever people stupid enough to stay there would belong to it, as would their descendants, forever. It had been in this corner of the world, come to be known as South Dakota, far longer and it _owned_ that land. It came to know a man, Charles McCreedy, who lived on its land along with his wife, Michelle Redding. It tainted her seed, their seed, and all the seeds of all their generations to follow. It embedded in their plot of farmland and stayed.

It followed their son, popping in and out until he was caught by the humans and incarcerated hundreds of miles from the patch of land. Prison turned out to be a boon for the demon. It ruled via the man, keeping his body going long after it would have stopped. Mending it and through it lording over other creatures in the place called prison.

Stories of demons and possessions abound in this land, the demon's land, yet it never feared. When they got too close it reached out and swept the land with fiery blades, clearing it and burning away as much of the human taint as possible.

Other humans eventually followed the farmers, they settled in a hidden town, Haven. They were men on horses and later gas powered machines who called themselves hunters and tracked down demons, worked to eradicate them from the land. They had names like Colt, Campbell, Turner and Elkins. Later there were names like Singer, Wendell, Winchester and Murphy.

Sometimes it would spend weeks or months on its patch of land, burning away those people unfortunate enough to be caught in its grasp, helped by some of its tainted ones, descendants of Redding and McCreedy.

Then one fateful day the demon was offered a truly wonderful prize. One of them, one of the hunters, nothing more than a boy really, wandered into its trap. Abaddon, demon of fire, wrapped its flaming fingers around the boy's chest, squeezed hard and held on tight.


	2. Chapter 1

_Thanks to Silver Ruffian for her help with the ins and outs of the prison system and regulations._

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* * *

_

_Two souls bonded through eternity._

_Without one there truly would not be the other._

_Two souls bound together forged by fire into a brotherhood of men._

There were bad days and then there were _bad_ days.

Stepping away from the coffee shop, Dean tightened his grip on the cardboard cups. He'd already repurchased Sam's coffee after spilling it on the way out the first time. It hadn't actually been his fault, the wind had caught the door and someone watching a flurry of activity across and down the street, someone who wasn't paying attention, was nearly smacked full force with the errant door.

Dean had saved the pedestrian, but in the process lost the coffee. Showing up without Sam's coffee would be worse than facing off an entire pack of rabid werewolves and twice as deadly. So, Dean went back in for more coffee.

Stopping a second attack by the door with his foot, Dean kept careful hold on the cups and headed down the street. When he finally caught sight of what was going on that had so many people so interested Dean stopped dead in his tracks, staring across the street at the sidewalk opposite him.

There stood Sam, hands behind his back, cuffed, ankles shackled. There were three police cars surrounding him. Sam's head was down, his bangs flopping around. He didn't struggle, stood placidly while too many cops milled around. One of them led Sam to the closest car, and with a hand on the top of Sam's head he started guiding him into the car.

Sam glanced up, gaze searching the crowd, searching for him Dean knew. He could tell by how Sam's expression changed when he saw Dean, gave a slight shake of his head. Sam was grateful to see his brother and afraid of being taken away all at the same time.

Casually stepping back a few paces, Dean kept a keen eye on the police car his brother was loaded into. Inching closer to the building behind him, he stayed there until the cops had cleared away. He quietly moved down the street, melting into a group of onlookers, making sure to keep his head down, face hidden from any cameras. He kept his movements and body language neutral.

Once back to their motel room, Dean slipped through the door and shut it firmly behind him, leaning against it, breathing hard. Valkyrie jumped against him, patting at his thighs with her paws, making him start. The coffee sloshed, some dribbling out of the cups and over his hands.

"Ow, damn, crap." Pushing past the dog, Dean set the cups on the table and darted to the bathroom, rinsing his hands with cold water. Cranking the faucet off, Dean stood leaning heavily on the sink trying to settle his insides and think straight.

He needed information about where Sam was taken and why. Well, he pretty much knew why, they both had records, Dean more than Sam though, so it didn't make a lot of sense.

Leaving the bathroom, he crossed to the television and switched it on, hoping for some news that might give him ideas. Next he went to Sam's computer bag and yanked the laptop free. Plugging it in, he booted it up, going straight to a news feed for this area.

All the while Valkyrie sat on his bed looking from Dean to the door in much the same way she had the day he and Sam had gone to Brandon's apartment and rescued her. He knew she was looking for Sam. The dog was scary in her ability to reason and know what was right and what was wrong. If Sam had gone on some errand or fact finding mission for a hunt, Dean doubted she'd even be awake right now.

"We'll get him back, chicky, we will, I promise." Dean shoved one hand into his pocket and yanked out his phone. "We need some information and some help, but we're not leaving Sammy in _there_ alone, not for one second longer than it has to be."

Finger hovering over the phone, Dean tried to decide who to call, or more to the point who to call first. He needed help, he knew that, but he and Sam looked after one another. Asking others, even others who were friends and family in their own way gave Dean a pang of insecurity and sparked a small bit of jealousy. He shouldn't need help caring for Sam any more than Sam needed help looking out for Dean. They understood what the other needed so well and so completely that others simply couldn't fill that role for either brother except on the most superficial level.

Valkyrie woofed and sat up. Gaze shifting to the dog, Dean sighed. Asking for help wasn't a sign of weakness or inability on his part, he had to remember that. "I need help, chicky. I need my head screwed on straight and I don't think I can handle this alone." He sank to the bed beside Valkyrie and rubbed her ears then down her back, amazed how one small dog offered so much comfort. "I can't. I need…God, I need to get him _out_."

Without more thought Dean scrolled through his contact list and made first one call then another. While he talked, trying to slow down and make sense, feeling very much like a small child lost in the mall asking for help finding his parents, he clicked through news sites of the area and flicked through TV stations. Panic settled in him and sprouted long, thorny branches through his chest and gut.

"_Listen to me, Dean, you stay put. I'm on my way, but you keep your ass right in that motel room until I get there_."

Don't fall apart, don't fall apart. "I…Sam needs…I can't just _sit_ here."

"_You can and will until I get there. We'll get him and fix this, but wait. Please. Going in unprepared will only make things worse._"

Dean nodded. When the man on the other end of the phone snorted he realized his action couldn't be seen. "Okay. How long?"

"_Um…I know a guy with a plane, and he owes me, he'll fly me in. I'll still need to rent a car. The airport is about—?_"

"Not far, forty-five minutes, an hour maybe." Dean wiped one hand over his face, struggling to concentrate. "I can—"

"_No, really, you can't. I'll drive. You shouldn't be driving. We'll be there late afternoon, early evening. Make sure your ass is sitting in that motel to meet me._"

He'd hung up before Dean remembered to ask who _we _was?

Pacing didn't really help, nor did searching online or on the television for any information on Sam's arrest. One thought kept rampaging through Dean's mind, Sam was in a cage. His Sam, his _Sammy_, caged and alone. Dean sat down abruptly, wrapped his arms around his middle and took a few deep breaths, rocking back and forth.

Valkyrie's cold nose against his arm pulled him back and cleared away some of the raw fear. He pulled his jacket on, pocketed his cell phone and slipped Valkyrie's harness over her head. A walk would do them both some good, and clear Dean's head.

When he got back to the motel room Dean's attention immediately became riveted to the television. He'd left in such hurry he'd forgotten to turn it off. He stood there, mouth open, brain not going fast enough to process what he was seeing or hearing.

A picture of Sam next to a police car earlier that day flashed across the screen. A name was announced and Dean scrambled for something to write on, scribbling the name as he watched the television. There was the usual news drama, how this criminal was apprehended, threat to society, but it was other words that hammered into his befuddled brain and made the thorny bush of panic grow larger.

Child molester. Rapist. Sexual offender. Kidnapper. Stewart Belmont—what the hell kind of name was that?—thirty-seven.

Dean stopped and squinted at the TV. He let the pen drop to the table he'd been hunched over.

"That makes _no_ sense." He looked over at Valkyrie then back to the television. The information was repeated, he'd heard correctly. Dean scratched his head. "Hell," he muttered, "even after a real tough night and at his roughest worst in the morning Sammy doesn't look thirty-seven. That can't be right."

Dean decided to not worry about that right now. Sam had obviously been mistaken for someone else. Neither of them had such charges against them and never had, not even close. The likelihood they ever would was so small it couldn't even be counted.

Deciding he had to do something to pass the time or he'd go completely batshit bonkers, Dean set about digging up everything he could on this Stewart Belmont. He didn't have Sam's hacking abilities when it came to things like FBI files, but he had plenty of his own computer savvy. By the time there was a knock on the door Dean was loaded with plenty of information on what this guy did, how he did it and to whom.

He was worse than most of the monsters they hunted and that was pretty bad.

The truly horrible part was Sam was inside a prison filled with convicts who thought Sam _was_ this monster. The thorny bush of panic grew into a huge tree.

A few quick breaths to clear his head and steady his nerves before Dean grasped the door handle and pulled the door open, nearly collapsing with relief when he saw the men standing there. He was surprised to see the sky was dingy gray and purple. It was getting dark. He'd called in the mid-morning.

Stepping forward and pretty much filling the doorway, Tim Forge gave him a crooked smile. "For once you did what someone asked. Are you going to let me in or do I have to camp on the doorstep? You did call me you know."

"Yeah," Dean stammered and stood to the side. "Sorry, it's been a long day."

"Have you eaten, boy?" Bobby snapped out.

"No, sir." Dean should have known who Forge meant by 'we' and who would be coming with him.

Carter Bitner offered him a sympathetic smile, walked in and shoved a turkey sandwich into Dean's hand as he slid passed him, muttering a soft, "Eat. Now. Or else."

Dean still didn't doubt Carter would have him held down or knocked him out and had a stomach tube run down his throat if he didn't comply. Taking the offered sandwich, Dean unwrapped it and took a small bite. His empty stomach snarled viciously that it was empty and neglected, he dug into the food.

"So, I've just gotten bits and pieces of this, what the hell happened?" Bobby perched against the table, shucked his coat and tossed it over the back of the chair next to him.

"I don't know. We've been here a couple a days, looking into a case. Some sort of vengeful spirit I think, not sure, something that's lighting people on fire."

Bobby and Forge groaned in unison.

Dean held up one hand. "I know. We were going to collect what info we could and hand it over to someone else, but we found out it was a person, some wack job arsonist. So we figured we'd pack up and head out. I left to get some coffee and Sam wanted to return some books to the library. He was out of my sight maybe twenty minutes, and honestly I was so damn happy he'd gone alone I never thought—"

"Dean," Bobby cut him off. "This isn't your fault in any way."

"If I'd gone with him or we just stopped on our way out of town maybe…"

"Maybe you'd both be in jail," Carter pointed out. "At least this way Sam has someone outside who's going to help him."

Carter was only trying to make him feel better, Dean knew this, but it wasn't working. "So, I come out of the coffee shop and there's Sam, surrounded by cops, in cuffs and shackles. I came back here and called Forge. When I got a name of who they think they arrested I started doing some digging. The guy they think Sam is, he's some freak who rapes and kills little kids and is thirty-seven. Hell, Sam's pretty rough around the edges in the morning before he's had coffee and a shower, but no way he'd look twelve years older."

Bobby snorted, "Kid don't look twenty-five half the time."

"What happened to the arsonist?" Carter asked.

"I don't know, arrested I think." Dean's stomach dropped and more tight, thorny bands constricted around his chest. "Oh, God, what if…Sammy...?" He couldn't help how his voice trailed off.

"No, Dean, stop that. He won't be, at least not right away. This guy," Forge looked up from the papers Dean had printed out, flicking them with one finger, "This guy he's an escaped convict who is extremely violent. Your arsonist isn't. It's not even likely he's in the same facility. He hasn't gone to trial yet. Sam would have been taken to a state penitentiary about forty minutes from here. No way they'd put someone who committed those crimes and escaped once in a county lockup. Maximum security is where they'd want him."

"We gotta get…I can't leave him in there." Dean looked around the room. He felt utterly helpless and that was never a good thing.

"No one suggested leaving him there. But," Bobby hopped off the table, "we're gonna need more details and a plan. Sam's not getting sprung tonight. This is a maximum security prison, we can't just go in there shooting." He held out his hand for the papers, taking them from Forge. "I want to go nose around Belmont's home town, see what I can dig up. Then I'm heading back so I can see if I can find building plans for that prison, anything that'll give us an edge." He snatched up Valkyrie's harness and whistled to the dog. He glanced at Forge, "I'll rent a car and get on the road, should be able to be there by morning."

Valkyrie bounced across the room, tail pumping while Bobby slipped the harness on. He looked up at Dean, offered a small smile and said gruffly, "guess I'm dog sitting."

Dean nodded and knelt down, rubbing at the little dog's ears. "You be a good girl, chicky. We…Sam and me, we'll come get you soon." He bent down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head then rocked back on his heels, wiping at his face. "I promise." She licked at his face for a few seconds before he gently pushed her back and stood up.

Bobby patted his shoulder and then squeezed it for a few seconds. "We'll figure it out, we will. Sam might be stuck in there for a few days, but we'll work out a way to get him out." He nodded to Carter and Forge heading for the door.

"Mr. Singer, wait." Forge beat him to the door, leaning one hand against it. Dean would have laughed on another day. What Sam referred to as Forge's 'vampireness' was something they didn't often see, especially Bobby. So the shocked expression on his face that morphed to annoyance wasn't completely unexpected.

Forge landed a hard look on Carter. "You need to go with him."

"I'm the only one here with actual prison time. Yeah, Dean and Sam were in Del Villar's compound for a few weeks, but I was in there for years and before that in an actual prison. You're going to need me."

"Which is exactly why you have to go back to Haven. We do need you, but if you get caught here, you'll end up in prison all right. You are a wanted felon. Let's not make the situation worse. You are more valuable far enough away and safe."

"He's right," Bobby said.

"You two check in every twelve hours," Carter added.

Bobby nodded. "I second that. You two be careful and stay sharp."

When the door shut behind Carter and Bobby, Valkyrie with them, Dean felt as if his family had been ripped to shreds. He paced the length of the small room a few times, completely aware of how Forge's gaze followed him.

Dean couldn't take it anymore. He'd called them for help, they were helping, he knew, but he needed some action. "I'm not leaving my brother in there alone. Either he comes out, or I go in with him. That's not negotiable. It's dark, maybe we can grab Sam while he's being transported—" Dean's words were cut off without warning.

Forge moved so fast Dean didn't even realize he'd left his spot by the door. He was a blur of motion as he crossed the room, grabbed Dean by the shirt collar and slammed him backwards into the wall. One arm up and across Dean's throat. Forge put enough pressure on his windpipe that Dean hacked out a few coughs.

"You listen to me you stupid fuck," Forge snapped out, his face close enough to Dean's he could see the tips of the extra set of fangs just under the surface of his upper gums. "This isn't some hick, backwater local jail your brother is in. This is real prison, the kind with real prisoners. Most these of guys have lived their lives in prison and the people who run the place know that. You walk in there unprepared, you'll end up arrested. You've got a record, Dean, remember? And when they arrest you it's likely you'll go to another facility and never see your brother again. He'll spend the rest of his life inside that prison." Giving Dean one final push, Forge stepped away from him, turned and ran his hand through his hair.

"You need to listen to me. I'm a cop, a real cop. My badge isn't fake. I can get in, assess the situation, try to see Sam and see if I can learn anything to help us."

Straightening, Dean leveled a glare at Forge. "I'm going with you. I need to see Sam." He dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. "I _need_ to see him. You don't understand what it did to him being locked in that cage by McCreedy and what we went through in New Mexico. You don't see what it did to him every single day. He's…I need to see him."

"No, but I can sure as hell see what it's done to you," Forge said quietly. He nodded a few times. "We need to figure out a way to get you in with me. We need a cover story and someone to back it up."

"Bobby can do that."

"How…Never mind, I don't want to know." Forge settled at the table and pulled the laptop around. "This everything you found?"

"Yeah, I saved it all then printed it in the office. It should all be on the screen still." Dean headed to the small fridge and dug out two beers, cracking them open and giving one to Forge. "He's from a small town in central South Dakota, no offence but I'm really hating South Dakota these days."

Forge snorted. "I don't blame you. Says here Belmont went to a Catholic school and worked in his parish."

"Oh, I bet they're proud."

"Yeah. But, maybe we can use that. Don't suppose you can pull off being a priest?"

Dean laughed outright at that. "All I need is the outfit."


	3. Chapter 2

Sam was doing his damnedest to be small and insignificant and unnoticed. Who was he kidding, it wasn't working. He was six-foot-four and even when he tried not to, he stood out in a crowd. He really would have preferred to blend in now, but he didn't have a clue how to do that. Not here, not this time.

At first he'd managed to keep his level of complete freak-out under control and his panic shoved deep down inside. Surely, when they fingerprinted him to book him they'd find out he wasn't the man they thought. It might not get him turned loose, but it would at least maybe keep him in the local jail or county lock-up which would make it far easier to escape.

He knew Dean would kill himself getting in and to Sam if he had to. That worried him—a lot. What worried him equally was the question of his own fate and safety, as in, both were very much in doubt right now.

The most difficult part was not fighting back, especially during the full body cavity search. That was something Sam never wanted to do again. He wanted to swing at everyone and take down as many of these cops as possible. It was all he could do not to try. He was trapped and wanted out. The trap was only going to close in tighter. Realistically these cops would likely shoot him if he made any move that even remotely looked threatening. There were too many and they were too heavily armed.

None of them cared anything about what he said, or what he tried telling him. So he stopped and sat quietly in a van while he was transported to a prison. There were six inside the van with him and two more driving. Whoever this guy was they'd mistaken Sam for must have been some sort of monster.

Then he'd gotten to the prison and any hope he had of keeping calm, pushing away his fear and panic flew right out the barred windows. The guards hit him for no reason, he never offered any resistance and one purposely tripped him, sending him sprawling to the floor of the intake area. Still in shackles he'd landed face first on hard cement and received a solid kick to his ribs along with the order to get up and get up now.

That had been an hour ago. Then he'd been put in _here_.

Sam looked around, unsure what to do. This was a prison, but there were no cells, not the section where he was and some deep sense told him this was the worst of all possible situations. There was no order here other than that provided by the prisoners. Prisoners who looked upon those that hurt children as the lowest of the low. Never having done well in large crowds and lacking Dean's extraordinary skills to blend in, Sam was barely able to contain the shudders threatening to break loose and ripple along his spine.

The only thing Sam could really concentrate on was Dean, how he'd be taking this, how Sam would get back to the safety of the Impala and his brother. He was completely out of his element here and he knew it. This wasn't a tight, confined space, it was large and open, but he was caged nonetheless. Caged up and alone.

A sharp jab to his back brought Sam's plight stampeding back. "Hey, white bread, whatchu doin' here?"

Sam turned and faced a black man a half foot shorter than he was who no doubt could cause a lot of damage to Sam. He was flanked by several others. They all wore symbols tattooed along their arms. One of them pointed to a section across the room. Opening his mouth to say he'd been arrested and thrown in here when Sam realized they meant this part of the pen. That's what he'd heard the other prisoners call this part of the prison, the pen.

Breaking eye contact—_don't look aggressive in any way, be submissive_—Sam mumbled, "Sorry, won't happen again," and slipped along the wall to a less crowded section.

The room he was in had once been a gymnasium but was now lined with rows of bunk beds each separated from the next by small tables and there were military style trunks at each end of the bunks. There was a definite division amongst the prisoners with the whites being in the minority. Mostly there were blacks and Hispanics, they seemed to group together. Next was a group of oriental descent. Each of the four groups had different symbols carved or tattooed on their forearms.

Gripping the hygiene kit he'd been issued, Sam tried to be inconspicuous as he headed toward the part of the pen pointed out. Head down he walked quietly along the rows of bunks until he found an empty one. Setting his kit on the table he started to ease onto the lower bunk.

"That one's mine." A gruff voice, coming from an even gruffer looking face sneered at him. The man was older, bald, and heavy with a scraggly beard.

Sam stood up and stepped away to another bunk, again mumbling an apology. He found another bunk that looked empty.

"That one's mine too." The man was behind him.

Sighing, Sam tried to rub his headache away with his fingers against his forehead. "Which one isn't yours? Which one can I use?"

"You—" the man growled and stepped into Sam's space, grabbing his collar in both hands, lifted him and slammed him into a wall, pulled him away, delivered two quick punches to Sam's middle and slammed him back into the wall. "—don't get any you kid raping freak."

Freak maybe Sam was, but child rapist, he was not. No one here was going to listen or care. Oozing down the wall, Sam tucked the hygiene kit under his arm and pushed along with his hands until he was away from the man. Shaking, Sam looked around, carefully not making eye contact with anyone. Several others were standing near the bunks, they didn't say a word, but the message was clear, Sam tried to claim a bunk and he'd get more of the same.

Normally he'd exert himself, take one or two of them on and end this nonsense. However, this wasn't a rational situation, these people were different. These weren't like the men in Del Villar's compound where winning a fight gave one status. He wasn't going to scare them or make them leave him alone unless he played by their rules. Trying to take one on in a fight would end in nothing but Sam having the crap beaten out of him or killed. He was one, they were dozens. He was outmanned and out muscled and very likely the only unarmed man in the entire prison.

Keeping his back to the wall, Sam found a corner. The floor was hard, he was still cold from his forced shower and delousing and now with sweat dripping down his back he was chilled and miserable. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt like sandpaper scraping his skin. Despite it all, he was hungry, feeling sick and terribly afraid.

When shadows lengthened from the small, glass block windows everyone in that part of the prison was ushered, in a single file line, to the mess-hall. Sam hung to the back, still trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. He'd barely gotten two bites of what was supposed to pass for food and a swig of water when a beefy arm swept across his corner of the table, sending his tray flying.

A mop hit him square across the shoulder blades and a round of laughter spilled around him when he hit on his knees on the hard floor. "Better get that cleaned up, freak." It was the same gruff, bald man from before. Again a good kick to Sam's ribs accompanied his words.

The few guards in the mess-hall did nothing other than stand at the sidelines, laughing, pointing and Sam saw one pass a bill to another.

Later in the evening he was allowed to the shower area, and thankfully it was empty. He had no shampoo or soap, those were in the kit that was gone when he returned from dinner. At least he could rinse the food remnants and dried blood off his face and body. Sam stood under the shower spray as long as he dared, letting the water drip into his mouth and down his parched throat. He managed to slurp cooler water from one of the sinks before he headed back to the pen.

Hunkering along the wall—there still wasn't an empty bunk—again the handful of guards hovering outside and along the walls did nothing to intervene as Sam was shoved, kicked and punched. Clenching his fists tight it was all he could do to keep himself from striking back, but he understood, that would mean his certain death.

Cut off and utterly alone Sam could do nothing more than pull his knees to his chest, wrap both arms around his legs and huddle in on himself.

Aching from the abuse he'd endured, still hungry and thirsty, Sam barely slept and in the morning when they were herded for breakfast he took the small amount of food he could get and crouched away from the others, getting what he could into his knotted stomach.

* * *

Forge stopped the car, put it in park and cut the engine. "I mean it, Dean, you got anything at all that even remotely resembles a weapon on you and they won't let you see Sam, and will likely arrest you. Any chances of you ever seeing your brother again will end."

"I have nothing." Dean held up both hands and gave him a nasty look, but was less defensive than before. "Search me if you want. You think I'm going to risk Sam in any way?"

"No," Forge admitted quietly. "No, I don't. I just want to be sure you don't risk yourself." He sighed and looked at the prison facility they were about to go into. "Do we need to go over this again?"

"I'm not a freaking amateur at this," Dean snapped.

"Have you ever been inside one of these places?"

"No." Dean shook his head. "Unless you want to count Del Villar's compound. We were in a decent sized county lock up once, on a case, but it was minimum security and we had a contact inside."

"And you were together?"

Dean nodded.

Forge kept a careful eye on Dean as he spoke. "This isn't like those, not even close. I've been inside some of these prisons. Your brother is completely out of his element in there and he's going to need you to stay sharp and clear. He's going to need something to hang onto, some hope and dude, you're all he's going to have."

The skin around Dean's mouth tightened and his lips flattened to a hard line. "Don't you think I know that?" His voice was low and in another setting Forge realized it would be lethal.

Nodding, Forge opened the car door and pushed out, hearing Dean do the same. "Just…look I don't want to have to fish you out, too. We're going to have enough trouble getting Sam out." He stopped and turned, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder, forcing him to stop walking. "Dean, I can't say this enough, these places, they're not like jails you've been in, or even county prisons. I know how you are with Sam, but you can't let your emotions override you. Sam might tell you some things, or you might see something and you can't interfere, you can't let on in any way you care one bit about him. He's nothing more than a creep who hurts kids."

Shrugging him off, Dean snapped angrily, "I know. How the hell many times are you going to tell me?"

"I want you prepared."

Dean nodded and rubbed at the back of his neck. "I'm behind you one hundred percent. I swear I won't do a thing without your lead."

Forge would actually believe that when he saw it, but it was the best he could hope for. To his credit Dean followed him quietly as Forge presented his badge, then

Dean handed over a driver's license Forge was sure was going to land them in a federal penitentiary, but didn't. They were led to the offices and searched. Forge felt a wave of dizziness for a few seconds waiting for some weapon to be found on Dean, but apparently Winchester had done as instructed this time. Maybe Forge's threats had sunk into Dean's incredibly thick skull.

Dean smiled and nodded politely to the man completing the search, looking every bit the pious and uncomfortable priest he was supposed to be. He turned into a totally different person right before Forge's eyes. It was amazing on a level Forge had never seen before. Dean said 'yes sir' and 'no sir' then mumbled a few Bible passages.

The quick call to Dean's 'parish' superiors completed his background check. How Singer pulled it off, Forge didn't _even_ want to know. The second call to check on his own credentials was routed to Singer also, but Forge distinctly heard Carter's voice on the other end of the phone. A quick run of his badge number, verified it was real, and they were on their way inside.

Forge worked to calm himself when the outer doors swung shut with a loud clang and the electronic locks were snapped into place. He'd been in these places more than once over the centuries and they really never changed other than the level of technology used to confine these criminals, many of whom he knew were very mentally unstable and ill. He'd never been at ease in a prison, especially this type and he'd always had the shakes when he was back outside again.

"When do we get to see Sam?" Dean paced around the small office they'd been left to wait in. "How many more hoops do I jump through?"

"They'll probably bring him from wherever his block is to the visitation rooms. They're private. We'll get to talk to Sam in complete confidentiality since you'll have the rights of any priest coming in here, but only for about twenty minutes."

Forge's words stopped when the office door swung open and a man in a suit stepped in, greeted them and shook their hands. "I'm Jeremy Michaels, one of the assistant wardens. I understand you're here to see Belmont?" He was tall and thin with bags under his eyes and thinning dirty gray hair.

Nodding, Forge stepped forward and shook his hand. "We are, sir, thank you for letting us in. Father Connelly," he waved in Dean's direction, "is from Belmont's family parish. There are a few missing children we believe Belmont is responsible for and he's agreed to speak about it to the Father. It's the only chance we have of getting the information we need."

Dean folded both hands in front of him and smiled pleasantly. The man could really work it when he wanted to. This was a whole new side of Dean Winchester Forge hadn't seen before.

"You understand this man is incredibly dangerous. You've requested a private visit, Father, and without guards in there I can't guarantee your safety."

Forge laced the fingers of both hands together and stretched his arms out in front of him. "That's what I'm here for."

Michaels nodded. "He'll be in wrist and ankle chains."

"As long as he can talk and we can give the families of those poor children some closure," Dean talked softly and put on an incredibly sincere face. Forge could only imagine how much of an effort that was after hearing his kid brother would be in chains.

At least the two brothers would have a few minutes together to talk freely. Forge was hoping this would ally both their fears for a few days until they could create extradition papers. Forge wasn't sure how they were going to do that exactly, but Bobby Singer seemed confident, he'd simply need a few days. Bringing Dean in as a priest to question 'Belmont' only added credibility to their story.

Forge wanted to get Sam out and the Winchesters and himself away from this place. Conning prison officials was risky at best, they always seemed to have some sort of sixth sense about these things which he supposed came part and parcel with their jobs.

"If you'll come with me, I'll have you escorted to the visiting area."

They followed Michaels along a walkway, three stories of cells lined the walls on either side. They cut across an outdoor exercise yard that was empty, no doubt cleared out to escort them through. When they were inside another section of the prison, Forge's heart sank and he had to consciously work to stop himself from dropping down his fangs, taking out as many as he could and telling Dean to find his brother, grab him and run like hell.

Dean saw the same thing he did, but obviously had no idea how bad it was or what it even actually was. The Winchesters might have plenty experience with the creepy and nasty of the supernatural kind, but when it came to the human kind, particularly the sort that lived in a prison such as this, Sam was terribly naive and Dean was only a marginally better. The curiosity on Dean's face when they passed the room marked gymnasium that was filled with bunks and men gave away to Forge how ignorant Dean was of prisons and prison life.

Not that that was a bad thing.

They walked down a corridor to a set of rooms with heavy iron doors that had small windows in them that could be closed off by sliding metal shudders on either side. Forge knew what they looked like before he and Dean were left in one. He thanked Michaels and the two guards with him and leaned casually against the far wall. Once the door was shut he erupted away from the wall as if it were covered in dead man's blood and stormed across the room a few times.

"This is bad, Dean. This is so damn bad you don't even know how bad it is."

"Hey, hey," Dean said, voice low and firm, he darted forward and grabbed Forge's shoulders, stopping him. "You're the one who keeps telling me to stay calm. What gives?"

Before he could answer the door to their visitation room swung open and Sam was brought in. Even though he looked at the ground, the sneer and glare at the guards was plain to see. By the way he moved Forge could tell he'd been beaten and was trying to hide the pain. His face was bruised and his skin looked hollow and gaunt.

One sideways glance at Dean whose expression went from absolute horror to ferocious anger in about two seconds would have given Forge a heart attack if he'd had a working heart to be stopped. He reached out and grabbed Dean's sleeve, giving a tug, cleared his throat and took a step forward so he was closer to Sam and the guards than Dean without blocking Dean's view.

He heard Dean's quick inhales and how he shifted his body to a straight, tight stance. Forge relaxed a small amount; first hurdle over and Dean had passed with flying colors, kept it together and kept to his cover.

One guard snarled out, "Visitors, freak." Shoved Sam forward a few steps, nearly making him trip and fall over the chains before he nodded to Forge, glared at Sam's back and left the room.

The door was slammed shut, the lock securely in place and for a few seconds none of the three men moved and there was total silence.


	4. Chapter 3

Dean's world narrowed down to the man in front of him. His confusion over Forge's sudden change, which had sent a streak of apprehension through him vanished. The unexpected attitude transformation had frightened him, but seeing Sam, _his_ _Sammy_, the kid who still believed good would triumph over evil and had faith in his big brother looking like some hollowed out violent, stranger brought everything in Dean to a halt.

Shock turned to anger in seconds, but he kept himself rooted to his spot, kept his cover.

Sam looked hard, his face was closed off and the look he gave the guard was pure hate, something Dean rarely saw in Sam. The room door clanked shut and for a few seconds no one moved. Dean wasn't even sure he or his brother was breathing. Sam's hair hung in greasy strands and Dean felt relief flood through him that his brother's hair hadn't been cut. Why it mattered or why Dean suddenly cared, he couldn't guess, but it was unexpectedly very important that Sam remained Sam and that meant his shaggy, perpetually in need of a cutting hair was untouched.

Lifting his chin far enough Sam could look at Dean his entire demeanor changed. The cold man standing before him crumpled off of Sam, leaving his brother and revealing a frightened, confused kid in its wake. Tilting his head, Sam's eyes liquefied and his breath hitched.

Swallowing down a choking sound, Sam pitched forward more than took a step, his movements impeded by the chains hobbling his ankles and wrists.

Dean jerked forward, his movements unsure. He felt like he was trying to move through water for a few seconds, his limbs felt sluggish and it was hard to breathe. A few strides and he was across the room, reaching out to grasp his brother's shoulders.

"Dean." Sam's voice was soft and wet, barely more than a whimper.

"I've got you, it's o—" Pulling Sam against him, Dean slid both arms around his back. Sam brought his arms up and tried getting his hands up and around Dean, but was hampered by the chains Dean felt pressing against his chest. It wasn't _okay_, they all knew it. Nothing was going to be _okay_ until Sam was out of this hell hole. He said instead, "I'm not leaving you in here, I'll get you out." Dean held his brother tighter against him while Sam drew in a long, shaky breath and pressed his face to the dip along Dean's shoulder where it met his neck.

Forge coughed and Dean heard him pull a chair out and sit down. They needed information from Sam and they didn't have a lot of time.

"Sammy," Dean said and tried easing his brother back. Another strangled sob from Sam and he clung more tightly to Dean. Letting his eyes slowly shut, Dean drew in a deep breath and rubbed his hand up and down Sam's spine for another minute. "Sam, buddy, we only have twenty minutes and we're going to get you out I swear, but we need help from you." Turning so he still had an arm around Sam's shoulders he gently leaned away and moved Sam to the chair opposite Forge's, pushing him down and massaging his shoulders for a few seconds until he felt his brother relax a small amount.

There were a few bottles of water on the table and when Sam reached for one the chains caught on the table edge, yanking and rattling. He cringed away, hunching in on himself and dropping his hands to his lap. "Can I—?" He nodded at the water. "Please? I'm thirsty."

"Of course you can. You don't need to ask," Forge said, his voice oddly gentle. Taking one of the water bottles, he cracked it open and held it out to Sam who guzzled it in a few desperate swallows.

Moving slowly, Dean eased into the other chair, all the while watching his brother, sure his face showed how appalled he was when realization sunk in that Sam hadn't been given so much as water since he'd gotten here.

"Sam," Forge said before Dean could say or do much more, "are you in the pen?"

Carefully setting the bottle down and laying his hands flat on the table Sam's gaze shifted nervously from Dean to Forge and back again. He looked to Dean as if he were guilty of something or afraid to answer. Placing his hand over Sam's arm, Dean squeezed and nodded.

"Yes." Sam's voice was raw and it cracked.

Forge sat back and ran one hand through his hair. "Crap."

"What?" Dean looked between them.

"I'll fill you in when we leave. Right now, we need to know what Sam knows."

Dean didn't argue, but Forge not meeting his gaze was a neon sign there was something even more wrong than his brother being in prison and Dean wasn't getting what that something was. He was pretty damn sure when he got the whole picture he wasn't going to like it one bit.

When Sam took a second bottle of water and downed that too, Dean blurted out, "Haven't you had anything to drink? Have you eaten?"

"Not much. I'm not exactly popular around here and I guess I don't rate a meal."

Dean shoved his considerable anger deep inside, this wasn't Sam's fault and he didn't want to even hint to Sam he thought his brother was responsible or able to change the situation. "Sammy, start at the beginning and tell us everything."

Sam nodded and drew in a deep breath. "I went out to the library and thought I'd stop and get something for breakfast on my way back. Next thing I knew I was surrounded by cops and being hauled in to the police station. I figured they'd fingerprint me and realize I wasn't who they said, but that didn't happen. Nothing I said or did made any difference other than make them madder at me. When I got here they thought I was some creep who raped and murdered little kids and no one is very happy I'm here." His gaze wandered around the room before coming to rest on Dean again.

"I found pictures online, this guy doesn't even look like him," Dean said to Forge, but reached out and let his hand rest on Sam's arm again as he spoke.

"Why do they think I'm someone who I don't even look like?"

Rubbing the skin under his eyes, Dean sighed. "I don't know, but I think that's something we need to find out."

Forge nodded. "Agreed. Sam, is there anything, even something small that you heard or saw that could give us any clues?"

Sam shook his head and if it were possible looked even more miserable than he had a minute before. "How long am I going to have to stay here?"

Dean's heart clenched and the room swam though his tears for a few seconds. He couldn't lie to his brother, not this time. "I don't know, but Bobby and Carter are working on it, too."

"All right, Sam, here's our cover." Forge leaned across the table and dropped his voice. "I'm here to get information from you about killings in South Dakota and I'm going to try to get you extradited. Dean is a priest from your family's parish and the only one you've agreed to give any details to."

"Okay. I'm sorry I don't know more that is helpful."

"We'll get through this Sam, we will." Dean squeezed his arm again. When Sam turned glassy, wide eyes on him and nodded, biting his lower lip Dean wanted nothing more than to gather his brother to him and somehow smuggle him out. How he was going to get himself out without pounding a few people into the ground he didn't know.

Loud clanging outside the door signaled their time was up. Two men who dwarfed Sam in height came in, standing quietly. One nodded politely to both Dean and Forge before turning a vile stare on Sam. Climbing slowly from the chair when the guard wrapped a meaty hand around his bicep, Sam was having a hard time standing fully and moving away from the chair, the chains caught on everything. Grumbling obscenities under his breath, obviously annoyed with how fast Sam wasn't moving the guard gave Sam a healthy jerk, which again nearly pulled him off his feet.

"Hey." Dean stepped forward, reaching for his brother, wanting to be sure he didn't hit face first on the floor. "He didn't do anything to resist. Give him a chance, it's hard to walk in those things" He pointed to the chains hobbling Sam's legs.

Forge cleared his throat again and the guard jerked harder on Sam's arm, pulling him along, making him stumble.

"This isn't church, padre, and this guy ain't one of your nice, upstanding flock. He's a filthy murdering animal and doesn't deserve to be treated as well as he is right now," the guard snapped.

"He's still a human being," Dean snapped right back. His chest swelled with frustration when the guard simply snorted and shoved Sam toward the door. "Barely."

Forge took a step forward and tapped Dean's arm, then gripped Dean's sleeve between two fingers. "Father." His tone was a warning, and even though he didn't say anything else, Dean got the hint and backed off. "I'll need to speak with Assistant Warden Michaels again."

"Yeah, I'll tell him. Wait here."

With that Dean's brother was gone, but not before Sam managed a glance over his shoulder at Dean. Swallowing down his protests and doing his best to keep from his face the rampant and overbearing emotions bubbling through him, Dean turned away and nodded to Forge mumbling out, "Sorry."

A few minutes later Michaels reappeared, again with a few guards flanking him. "Did you find out what you needed?"

"That man is important to my investigation. He's also a prisoner under your care, what happens to him is your responsibility. He hasn't had food or water since he's been here. What the hell sort of prison are you running? I can and will go to the prison board if necessary," Forge shouted, pointing at the door Sam had been led through.

"I have one guard to every one-hundred prisoners here. He was taken to meals like everyone else, we can't baby sit them all and watch to be sure everyone gets the same. If he can't hold his own here, oh well."

"I'm having him extradited. He damn well better be alive enough to testify."

Michaels smirked, "Detective, you can have his sorry ass. I sure don't want him here, too much trouble, but I'd suggest you get your extradition and get it fast."

"You know it takes at least a few days."

"Then I'd suggest you wake up a judge and get it sooner." Turning on his heels, Michaels ignored them, speaking to the guards. "See them to the gate."

Dean remembered these people thought he was a priest. "Mr. Michaels." When the warden turned and looked him up and down, with obvious distaste, Dean folded his hands in front of him and leveled a no nonsense stare at Michaels. "Assuring that man is alive and healthy enough to give statements, and for the information he gives to be verified isn't helping him, but the families off all those innocent victims. It wasn't their fault and you impeding this investigation makes you no better than the man you despise so much. He'll get what he deserves, if not here then when he has to atone for his sins."

Michaels glared at Dean for a few seconds before shaking his head and waking away.

Looking back at Forge, Dean tried reading his expression, but other than the anger smoldering in his eyes directed at the spot Michaels had been standing in, the man's face was blank.

Brushing by Dean, Forge stalked out of the room, pausing only long enough to lay a hand on Dean's shoulder and pull it away a split second later. Clamping down on his anger and confusion, Dean followed him through the prison. Neither said a word until they were sitting in Forge's car. He cranked over the engine, yanked on the gear shift with enough force Dean winced, sure he'd pull it out of the car.

Gripping the steering wheel, Forge drove, staring straight ahead, then drew in a breath, opened his mouth and shut it again. Dean recognized the actions for what they were he'd certainly done them enough with Sam. There was something Forge wanted to tell him and he didn't know how.

Dean decided to let him off the hook fast. "Just out with it."

"Dean, I—"

"Cut the crap and tell me. I don't get half of what's going on or what you were asking Sam, so goddamn it, tell me."

"We need a new plan. That kid can't stay where he is." Forge was rambling, almost sounding panicked, which didn't make Dean feel any better. "This is bad, Dean, this is incredibly bad."

"Yeah, I got that," Dean shouted. Forge's gaze jerked to him so fast the car swerved. "Pull over."

"What?"

"Pull the hell over before you kill us—me! And wreck a perfectly good, albeit ugly, cheap ass, new car."

Checking behind him, Forge flicked on the turn signal and guided the car to the roadside. Once the car was stopped and in park, Dean shoved out and stormed to the driver's side, meeting Forge head on when he climbed out. Forge pushed against his shoulders, forcing him back a few steps. He began pacing along the side of the car, running his hands through his hair, a gesture that reminded him too much of Sam.

"You and Sam, you've been in jail, never anything like this."

"You keep telling me that and you're almost making me feel guilty for not having more time on the inside."

"No, Dean, I'm sorry. Do you know what a pen is?"

Dean shook his head no, feeling a bit stupid.

"Some prisons, larger ones and unfortunately the ones with the more hard core criminals, are overcrowded to the point they run out of cells. So, one solution has been to take gymnasiums or some other large space and put in beds and house them that way. The problem is, cells don't simply keep the prisoners locked in and away from us," he waved one hand between him and Dean. "They also provide protection to the inmates and give them somewhere to go. Without walls and bars there is no way to diffuse a violent situation, or let an inmate get away from others if they have to. This is the worst of all possible situations. These prisons also harbor a large majority of gangs."

"That's what Sam's in?"

Forge nodded. "Yeah, Dean."

"And we left him there?" Dean pointed down the road, stepping up to Forge and yelling at him.

"We didn't have a choice!" Forge shouted right back. "We need to come up with a way to get Sam out of that pen and get him some protection until we have the paper trail we need to get him out."

"Take me back to the motel. I've got enough fire power in the Impala to take out a small country. I'll damn well get him out."

Forge grabbed his arm, spun him around and impressed Dean by dodging the punch Dean threw at him. "Dean, stop. You try that and they'll gun you down before you get to the first gate. Where will your kid brother be when you're dead? Huh?" He hit Dean's shoulders, making him stumble back a few steps. "Where will Sam be with you dead, even after I still get him out?"

Leaning over, bracing his hands on his knees, Dean panted through his nose, trying to steady his spinning senses. "I can't leave him. They'll destroy…he won't…"

"No one is leaving Sam in there. But, Dean, dude, you gotta put a lid on this. That kid is not going to come out the same person he went in, it just won't happen and he's going to need you. I get you two, I really do. He comes out and you're not here, he's dead anyway."

"Sam's stronger than that," Dean snarled out, defiant on Sam's behalf.

"Nobody is stronger than that. Trust me, I've seen it. Nobody is." Forge's voice quieted and softened. "Let's get back, see how far Bobby and Carter have come with what we need and go from there."

Twenty minutes later they were back in Dean's motel room, Bobby and Carter on a conference call and speaker phone.

"I've planted fake stories online, and am working up case files now," Bobby said. "We should be able to have a paper trail on Sam, who they think Sam is, connected to this area and going back a few years in another couple of days."

"Sam's in a pen." Forge stopped his pacing and blurted out.

Dean heard Carter suck in a breath before groaning out, "Oh Jesus Christ, no."

"Pen?" Bobby's voice was gruff and annoyed. At least Dean wasn't the only one not up on prison lingo and policy.

"Instead of cells all the inmates are kept in large groups," Carter explained. "We need to get that kid out of there. Fast."

"Finally, someone agrees with me." Dean threw both hands in the air and let them drop.

"Yeah, well unless we can get the paperwork—" Forge was pacing again; it was starting to drive Dean nuts. One side effect of him and Sam growing up in a car and small motel rooms was that neither was much of a pacer.

"Administrative seclusion," Carter cut him off.

"What's that?" Bobby and Dean asked together.

"Solitary." Forge stopped and stared at the phone. "No. He's going to be a mess as it is when we get him out, that'll just—"

Again Carter cut him off, yelling this time. "He's going to be dead. A little crazy is a far better alternative…and far easier to fix than dead."

"What do you mean a little crazy?" Dean asked. He turned to face Forge completely. The guy looked slightly green, which was interesting considering he had no circulation being a vampire and all. He definitely had that didn't want to tell Dean anything expression again. Reaching out and grabbing Forge's arm, Dean gave it a gentle tug. "Be straight with me."

Forge sighed and seemed to deflate, looking defeated and miserable. "Solitary confinement is…"

"I know what it is. I was even in it for a night when Sam and I went into a prison on a case."

Nodding, Forge rubbed at the back of his neck. "A night. Solitary confinement is the last resort for most prison officials. See, it separates the problem from the masses; however it creates a whole new set of problems. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, no matter how mentally stable they are, who spends more than a few nights in solitary they…uh…there's medical terms for it, but they all develop some…"

"They go nuts," Dean finished for him. Forge nodded. "So you're asking me to agree to put my brother in a tiny cage, all alone, where he's likely to simply go insane?"

"It doesn't happen right away," Carter's voice from the phone made Dean back away from Forge and move closer to the phone. "It happens in stages and it can be reversed, people can be treated. Most commonly the psychosis starts with hallucinations. Most guys in there recover if they're not in for more than a few weeks."

"Look," Bobby's voice chimed in. "I think we deal with the immediate threat. Sam's in a prison and everyone thinks he's some kid killer, not good. If they thought he was a cop killer he'd be fine, but that's not the case. We have one way to keep him safe till he's out and this is it."

"The choice is yours, Dean," Forge said quietly.

"No." Dean shook his head. "No, it's not. It's Sam's."


	5. Chapter 4

Sam hadn't been able to help the brief glance back at Dean as he was led from the prisoner meeting room. Realizing too late it might have risked their cover, he tried comforting himself with the fact the guards didn't seem to pay much attention and neither Dean nor Forge were hassled, he was sure he'd have heard rumors if they'd been detained.

Twenty minutes. He'd been given twenty minutes with his brother and to Sam it was as if he'd been granted the most monumental gift possible. Just knowing his brother risked so much to get into the prison to see him made Sam feel less abandoned and alone. Less hopeless. Dean was near, with him, had not left him, even if Dean wasn't actually in the prison he hadn't left Sam alone. He'd come back for Sam. He _would_ come back again.

He swallowed down the panic that was his constant companion since coming here. He ignored the urge to turn and run back to Dean, curl against his chest and find solace in the sound of his brother's heartbeat. Instead, Sam stoically plodded away from the meeting room, _one foot in front of the other_, he reminded himself, _head down, and keep walking where they tell you to go_.

The chains and shackles were removed from his arms and legs at the entrance to the pen. One guard opened the door, stood to the side and with a fake smile all over his face, grandly waving Sam back inside.

Keeping to the wall, Sam moved along to the section he'd spent most of his time in since coming here. He wasn't even sure how long it had been, a day or two, three tops? For now he was thankfully ignored by the others, which suited him fine. He wasn't exactly the life of any party and he certainly didn't want to be the center of attention here.

A short time later the guards came, lined them up and everyone was taken to the mess hall. Sam shuffled along at the back, gratefully was able to go through the line and get some food without incident. It was a true testament to how hungry he was when his stomach growled and his mouth watered from the smells and sight of what was offered.

Even Dean wouldn't eat this, and that was saying a lot. Dean ate anything.

Finding a corner that he hoped was far enough out of the way no one would pay any attention to him, he settled on the floor, back against the wall. Stomach reminding him again of his gnawing hunger, Sam scooped up a few things on his plate with a plastic spoon and did his best not to look at it, whatever it was.

Two mouthfuls were all he'd gotten before he realized there were footsteps coming at him. Glancing up, he tried pulling the tray closer to his chest, but it was useless. A foot lashed out and sent the tray spiraling away, the pitiful meal splashing all over the floor.

"You don't get to eat with a spoon off a plate. You're nothing but an animal."

Sam recognized the man from one of the other sections in the pen. He was Mexican, bald, not very tall but built like a line-backer. Three others flanked him.

Biting his lip to keep from swearing at them, Sam dropped his gaze and tried inching away. The man bent down and grabbed Sam by the back of the neck, pushing him at the floor. "Clean it up."

Sam had to move quickly to get his hands out and stop his face from hitting the linoleum. Clenching his jaws shut, Sam shook his head, trying to get free. It was clear he was expected to lick the food off the floor.

"You wanna eat, you eat like the pig you are," the man hissed close to Sam's ear, pushing harder on the back of his neck.

"Leave me alone. I haven't done anything to you." Trying to convince anyone here he was innocent of the crimes he was accused of was useless and he knew it, but they all knew he'd done nothing since he'd been put in this prison.

Without warning the pressure on his neck was gone. He heard the men retreating and a mop appeared in front of him. Pushing up and back onto his heels, he grasped the mop handle and slowly stood up.

The Mexican was flanked by a few others all wearing the same symbols etched into their skin. The odd thing was they were backing away from the man now standing in front of Sam, who had handed him the mop. He didn't live in the pen, but in one of the older cellblocks and he worked the food-line, Sam had seen him there each time he'd come into the mess hall.

The fact the younger, bigger guys from the pen backed away from this man amazed him and had him standing there staring stupidly at them all. The newcomer was older, maybe in his sixties, Sam wasn't sure. His back hunched ever so slightly and his thin arms and chest swam in the larger prison shirt. Round, wire-rimmed glasses were pushed up the beak of a nose with one, long, boney finger. His hair was gray and stringy, hanging down his back in a pony tail to his shoulders.

He stared back at Sam. Nodding to the floor he said, "Clean that up. I'll be working the line in the morning, see me." He turned and walked away.

Sam made quick work of cleaning the food off the floor and disposing of it, ignored by everyone in the room other than a few of the guards pointing at him and obviously talking about him.

* * *

Waiting until after the other men had their shower time, Sam hoped he could get the scum, sweat and stray bits of food washed off in peace. He should have known it was too much to ask for. He barely had the soap rinsed off and out of his hair, knuckles rubbing over his eyes to clear them of the soap residue when he heard voices.

He had a pretty good idea what was coming and was honestly surprised it'd taken this long.

Out of sheer reflex, Sam reached out, grabbing for a towel, squinting from water droplets running along the rim of his eyelids carrying the burn and sting of soap. His vision cleared for a few seconds, long enough for him to see there were four men between him and where the towel had hung. The shower floor was still wet, soap swirling around and circling the drain.

"Leave me alone," Sam snapped and half turned, shutting off the water and looking for another towel. It was a stupid thing to do, he knew it, but he was tired, his nerves were frazzled, he was naked and he had spent the days since being arrested in a constant state of scared out of his mind.

He should have known better than to turn his back.

Though facing them or turned away wouldn't have made much a difference. They were clothed, wore boots and had sure footing. One held a length of tightly woven material. Sam was naked, his feet were slipping over slick tiles and he was out-numbered. He gritted his teeth and braced himself for the attack that was coming.

His brother had been there, and would come back for him. There was nothing these men could do to him that wouldn't fade once he was out and safe with Dean. Sam let himself sink farther into his head, imagined how Dean would handle this, be proud of him for surviving because sometimes that's all you did, survive to fight another day.

Sam clung desperately to the knowledge he wasn't abandoned in here alone. He'd get out.

One man strode forward, boot connecting hard with Sam's middle, not only knocking him backwards but tearing at the tender skin of his belly. A second man had him down, face first on the shower floor, arms cranked up behind his back while he pressed one knee to the middle of Sam's spine. Focusing on the jarring pain radiating across his back and shoulders kept Sam from thinking of the other pain that would surely follow. The one he had to ignore, the one he'd have to survive through.

Someone grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back until his neck was cranked at such a painful angle it was hard to breathe. He gasped and tried bucking the man off when the woven material was wrapped around his neck and pulled taunt, not cutting off his air so much as a warning of what would come.

"You're sick. You're not even human. This place is Hell and you aren't even good enough to be here." The man holding his hair bent down and snarled the words in Sam's face, his breath hot and foul, making Sam want to turn away. He couldn't, but he could squeeze his eyes shut and close his mind.

He heard one of the other men moving around behind him, heard how his boots squelched on the wet flooring. He heard the sound of pants being pulled down.

Twisting, trying to get free and at the same time convince himself he'd endured far worse, Sam ground out panicked words, "Do I _look_ thirty-seven to you?"

His answer was a grunt and a sharp jab to his left ankle with the toe of a boot then a solid kick to the inside of his knee. His ankles were caught in a harsh, unrelenting grip and his legs pulled painfully wide and held fast.

Sam squeezed his eyes even more tightly shut. He wanted to dip his head and tuck his chin closer to his collarbone but was unable to move because of the hand clamped in his hair holding him. He wanted to press his cheek to the floor and hide. Instead he panted through the pain of his body being forced to contort into a position it was never meant to go. He'd been shot, beaten, stabbed and twice thrown out of a moving car, this couldn't possibly be worse or hurt more.

It couldn't.

He'd faced all sorts of monsters, most of which people, even these people, only knew of from books and nightmares. He'd been afraid and faced them, fought hard. This was no different. These were simply another kind of monster. He was afraid, but as long as he lived through it the fear would recede, he'd get beyond an assault.

"Let him go," the voice was quiet, familiar and calm.

"He's scum, you can't possibly—"

"I _said_, let him go. No one does this to this boy. This one is for me." The voice didn't raise, didn't yell but issued a stern command nonetheless.

Sam recognized the voice. It was the man from the mess hall food line.

All of a sudden his arms and legs were released. The material dropped away from his throat and his hair was let go allowing him to straighten his neck.

"Go back to where you belong," the man spoke to the other prisoners.

There was grumbling, some half-assed threats and general scuffling of feet for a few seconds before Sam and the man were alone. Gathering his arms and legs, he got to his elbows and knees, looking up. Dangling off the man's fingers was a towel, which Sam snatched immediately. Leaning back on his haunches, he wrapped it around his hips before standing.

Normally he'd thank the man. He didn't want to know what he'd have to do to show his thanks and he certainly didn't want to owe this man, or anyone here, anything.

"Get dressed and come with me."

While Sam fumbled with his clothes, the man stood silently watching him but not in a way that he seemed _interested_ in him. Once Sam was clothed again, the man turned and walked away making Sam stretch his legs to their fullest to keep up. He kept his mouth shut as he followed the man through the prison to an older section that was divided into cellblocks and individual cells.

None of the guards paid much attention to the fact Sam was well out of the area he was assigned to or to the man he was with, other than a few men that nodded almost politely to the man. Sam felt as if he were invisible or simply didn't exist at all. That had been his goal all along and suddenly it gave him an even more creepy feeling than he'd had up to this point.

Nothing added up, not why he was here, not why no one saw that he was a twenty-five year old man, not a thirty-seven year old one. He felt like the entire place was all sorts of wrong, starting with the man he was with. The guy was off and not in the _been-in-prison-too-long_ crazy sort of way.

They stopped at a cell on the second level, one of many rows of cells on three levels and taking up all four sides of the building. Pushing the sliding barred door to the side, the man stepped in and motioned for Sam to follow. Swallowing hard, Sam stepped up to the threshold, but didn't go inside. He didn't want to be in a small enclosed room with this man. In fact, he didn't want to be in any small, enclosed room. A small voice in the back of his head asked why this guy had such freedom.

The cell was long and narrow, the bunk bed had only one mattress and sat positioned so it blocked a clear view of the rest of the cell, which was maybe six foot wide and ten long.

"You don't belong in here," the man said simply and held out one hand, pointing at one of the longer walls. "I know you."

Leaning around the doorframe to see farther into the cell, Sam snorted and muttered, "You and everyone else think you know me." When his eyes adjusted to the lower lighting his attention immediately riveted to the wall. There were papers, newsprint mostly, but some from magazines, pictures and articles, some new, some seemed new, some looked older, covering the majority of the wall.

"I know you're not who they all think you are." The man crossed his arms over his chest and smiled kindly. "See we have a common…acquaintance." The smile that spread larger over the man's face reminded Sam of oil sliding over pavement.

Sam felt a muscle in his jaw twitch as heat drained from his face, and no doubt his color too. He couldn't move, despite the fact he wanted to run. His knees felt like jelly, the air around him suddenly thick and like sludge pulling into his nostrils to ooze along to his lungs. Fear curled up from his testicles and ripped up his spine, through his gut and filled his chest.

"He's been waiting for you." The man turned and looked at the pictures on the wall. "He wants to finish what he started. A real artist is what he is. I might be his biggest fan."

"W-who are y-you?" Sam finally found his voice, wondering if his words could be heard over the hammering of his heart.

"Folks around here call me Weasel. I've been here longer than anyone, one of the first prisoners. I'm famous, like you. You're the one that got away, sole survivor," Weasel chuckled and rocked on his heels. "Abaddon has been waiting for you, _Sam_. We both have."


	6. Chapter 5

Dean held his hands at his sides, fingers twitching as if he was waiting to draw on the outlaw coming down the street. On second thought, Forge figured maybe that's what Dean was doing. He'd come within a hair's breadth of frisking him for weapons before they went into the prison since he couldn't rely on his sense of smell. Even dressed as a priest Dean's clothes reeked of flash powder and gun oil.

Forge seriously considered turning Dean simply so they could go at each other on even ground. Despite the fact Forge had come to help, help Dean had asked for, they were still tap dancing around each other and almost at odds.

It was stress from knowing where Sam was and not being able to help him, Forge knew that.

They waited in the same prisoner meeting room as before for Sam to be brought in. When the kid arrived he looked worse than he had the day before, something Forge wouldn't have thought possible. His head swiveled around and he watched as the guards stepped through the door, the clank of the lock loud. Drawing in a deep breath, Sam went right for Dean who stood in the middle of the room. He didn't even seem to notice Forge was there at all.

Stumbling across the room, wincing as the ankle shackles caught, probably biting and ripping skin, Sam grabbed Dean's arms, face nothing but sheer panic. Sucking in air he literally spit words out between rapid breaths. "He's here. Dean, he's _here_."

Frowning, Dean's gaze slipped to Forge for a split second before resting on his brother again. Gripping Sam by his elbows, and holding him so he was forced to look only at Dean, he asked, "Who, Sammy?"

"Ab-abad-a-abaddon. There's a man here, he knew my name and that I was the only survivor. H-he said Abaddon was waiting for me."

Dean's face sank as hurt and confusion crossed over his features. "Sam," he said very slowly, voice low and gentle, "we've been over this, a lot. Sammy, buddy, Abaddon is dead. We saw them die, all of them, the McCreedy brothers and Redding."

Shaking his head furiously, Sam's hair flapped in all sorts of odd directions. "This g-guy, We-weasel, he's g-got a wall full of news clippings about the killings, he knew my name and Abad-d-don's. Dean, how would he know? H-he's here, he is." Sam got one hand up, gripping the front of Dean's shirt in his fist.

Licking his lips, Dean squeezed one of Sam's arms and nodded. "Okay, Sammy, we're going to figure all this out. I promise." He slid one hand to Sam's shoulder and guided him to the table. "First we need to get you somewhere safe until we can get you out. I need you to listen and concentrate. Okay?"

Sam nodded, eased into a chair, looking up at Dean, eyes locked on his brother. Forge could literally smell the terror radiating from Sam. His heart went out to the young man. He'd expected it to take a while longer before the breakdown started, but Sam was so far out of his element and combined with the fact he and Dean were accustomed to open roads and more freedom than most people it made sense this would happen quite quickly.

"Dean, listen to me, please?"

"I will, Sammy. But first we need to talk about our plan. We've only got twenty minutes." Dean gently loosened Sam's hand from his clothes and sat in the chair opposite him. He reached across the table and took firm hold of Sam's wrists, right above where the shackles rested. Sam's fingers twitched much like Dean's had a half hour ago. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and watched Dean with wide eyes.

How anyone could even remotely think this kid was some sort of cold-hearted murderer was beyond Forge. That was a question they needed to answer, one of many.

"Sam, listen to me. We," Dean nodded at Forge, "came up with a plan. The other prisoners here think you're a kid killer. Forge can arrange to have you kept in solitary. That'll keep you away from the other inmates and you'll get food and water. Carter and Forge thought of it, they know a whole lot more about prisons than we do."

Sam swallowed and looked from Dean to Forge and back again. When something banged outside the door and there were voices Sam jerked around and looked at the door for a few seconds before turning back to them. Forge could see the realization set in even before he spoke the words. "I'll be alone? In a little room, a cage?" His face paled and the haunted quality his eyes took on made a shiver ripple down Forge's spine. He watched Sam's face change as the kid buried fear and confusion then bucked himself up to do as Dean asked.

Dean let go of Sam long enough to wipe one hand over his face, looked down at the table then back up. "Yes."

One tight nod. "O-okay," Sam barely whispered. "He, Weasel, he knew my name. He called me _Sam_. He told me he has been here since the prison opened, and that Abaddon was waiting for me, so was he, to finish what was started." Drawing in a shaking breath, Sam blurted out, "He _knew_ my _name_. How would he know those things if it wasn't him?"

"I don't know, Sam. But the McCreedys and Redding are dead. You know that. And in solitary this Weasel guy won't be able to get to you."

"Then how did he know?" Sam looked dubious. Forge wasn't sure what Sam believed.

Forge planted both hands on the table and stood up. "_That_ is something we'll find out. I promise you, Sam. But first things first. We get you safe from the other inmates and we get you out. _Then_ we'll deal with Abaddon, or whoever."

"Two minutes." One of the guards shouted through the door, banging on it, making Sam nearly fall off the chair he jumped so hard.

Prisons were bad enough when you belonged in one, but for someone who wasn't a criminal or very street savvy they were confusing and beyond dangerous. Forge was really feeling the need to simply kill someone. Maybe he'd start with that idiot assistant warden. He'd spent hours already trying to figure out why Sam's fingerprints didn't prove who he wasn't, or how these people thought Sam was a thirty-seven year old man.

Now this new development, someone Forge never heard of knowing all about the case involving the McCreedys and Mike Redding. Forge decided he might very well spend the rest of his life—which could be a considerable number of years—cleaning up the mess left by those killers.

"Sam, are you okay with this?" Dean laid one hand on his brother's arm, drawing Sam's attention back to him.

Biting down on his lower lip, Sam nodded. "Not like I have a choice."

"Of course you do, just not much of one. We're going to have to trust Carter and Forge on this I think."

Sam nodded. "You don't believe me," he said very softly.

Dean drew in a deep breath, gaze shifting to Forge for a split second before he looked Sam in the eye. "I believe in you and that we can both get through this. I believe there is something seriously wrong going on here and we're gonna figure out what."

That seemed to be the correct answer. Sam slumped a bit in his chair, shoulders and back relaxing. Walking out and away from Sam was absolute agony for Forge, he could only imagine the depth of torture it was for Dean. Once they left the visitation room, and reluctantly left Sam with the guards, they headed for the administration offices. Dean cast a few looks back over his shoulder at his brother as they walked farther and farther from him.

When they reached Michaels's office, Dean exploded through the door, slamming both hands flat on the top of Michaels's desk, and leaning over he snarled out, "That man is being abused here."

Forge stood back and watched. He hadn't coached Dean at all, but the man sure seemed to have some instinct that allowed him to handle these situations and react accordingly and in the exact way that got results. Angry priests tended to throw people off guard, especially when they cleared six foot and were built like a bouncer with the attitude to boot.

Michaels stood and looked Dean up and down coolly, but he didn't move away from the other side of his desk. Even as a priest Dean was damn imposing. "What would you like me to do, Father?"

"He's important to this detective's case and to finding bodies that need proper burial so their families can have closure. It's your job to be sure your prisoners are safe, isn't it?"

Michaels laughed outright at that. "It might be my job on paper. What is really my job is keeping these scum sucking creeps away from good people. I'm not standing in the way of Belmont being extradited."

Forge saw how Dean's hands bunched into fists at the mention of Belmont's name. He sort of pitied Belmont if Dean Winchester ever got his hands on him.

"He's covered in cuts and bruises," Dean snapped.

"I repeat, Father, what do you want me to do?"

Stepping forward, Forge put one hand on Dean's arm and nudged him back a step and away from the desk. "How about seclusion?" He gave Dean a sidelong glance, quite pleased. They did the good cop-bad cop thing pretty well and they hadn't even rehearsed.

"What?" Michaels sort of sputtered over the word. "He hasn't done anything to warrant that."

"He's a disruption to your prison. Other inmates are after him. Eventually he's either going to lose his cool and fight back or worse he's going to find some friends, his own kind. Either way you're going to have war on your hands. Separating the problem out makes sense. We'll have him out of here in a week or so and I'm sure when he goes to trial he'll get a death sentence. What do you care if it's this state or in South Dakota? Isn't the goal the same?"

Michaels crossed his arms over his chest and drew in and released a few deep breaths. "Okay." He nodded. "It makes sense, okay, I'll arrange it. Get that damn extradition."

"How long?" Dean bit out.

Gaze sliding from Forge to Dean and hardening, Michaels shrugged. "Within twenty-four hours."

"Twenty-four hours? Why can't you—"

Forge's fingers clamping down on Dean's arm stopped him mid-sentence. He smiled politely at Michaels. "That'll be fine. Thank you. Father, we should be going now." Holding his other arm out, he waved at the office door and turned Dean, guiding him out.

Dean stopped after a few feet. Despite Forge trying to move him along he weighed anchor and stuck where he was. Turning back to Michaels, Dean drew in a deep breath, kept his voice even. "You let him die before we get the information we need and you're no better than he is."

Forge was sure he heard the: _and you'll answer to me_ that Dean didn't say but thought quite clearly.

Giving Dean a shove, Forge got him out the door before Michaels could respond. He leaned over and hissed in Dean's ear as the office door shut behind them, "You're not helping."

Dean jerked free and stalked a few paces ahead not saying a word until they were outside and next to their car. The finger twitching was back and Forge braced himself for a solid punch to the jaw. Whirling around to face Forge, Dean spat out, "He said it would take a day! Another damn day!"

"What did you expect, Dean, they'd run and get Sam and tuck him away in solitary right then and there?"

"Yes! No! I don't know." Dean backed up and slumped against the car. "He won't survive another day," he whispered.

"Dean," Forge said, stepping forward and putting one hand on his shoulder. "Sam's done okay so far. He's kept his cool, not challenged anyone and that's the important thing."

"Yeah, well Sam isn't going to keep his cool forever. He's _way_ past his limit now, I can tell that just by looking at him."

Running one hand through his hair, Forge sighed. "He said it could take _up_ _to_ twenty-four hours, not that it _would_ take that long. He's yanking our chain."

"Why?" Dean looked at the prison, not Forge.

"Control freak I suppose. We go with the plan. Dean, it's all we have right now."

Dean shoved off the car and stepped to the side so Forge could unlock it. "Abaddon is a mid-level demon. A fire demon," he said when Forge had the car in gear and was driving toward the road.

"I thought if you knew a demon's name you controlled it."

Snorting, Dean shook his head. "The demon has to say the name itself. I know dozens of demon's names, maybe hundreds."

"So, what's mid-level? They what, have bosses?" Forge asked.

"Hey, I don't make this stuff up, I just report it. Demons have a hierarchy. And, they specialize, fire, plague, general chaos, you name it. Sam and I always thought the McCreedy brothers took the name because Abaddon is a fire demon."

"Could one demon do this?" Forge glanced over at Dean when they stopped at a traffic light, not looking away from the other man until he had to put the car in motion again.

Dean nodded slowly and wiped one hand over his mouth. "They can manipulate. Possess people and make them see or feel what the demon wants. Some practiced black arts—magic—as humans and still have skills. Abaddon, the actual demon, might be mid-level but it's old—ancient—who knows what skills it has."

"Would Sam know this, about this demon?"

"Yeah," Dean rasped out.

Forge had to make it clear, for himself. "So, what he was saying about this Weasel guy being Abaddon, it's irrational?"

"He didn't say that man was possessed. He said he was Abaddon, so yeah, I'd say so. If he thought Abaddon was possessing this Weasel guy, that's totally different. He would have said that. Sam's losing it big time, isn't he?"

Swallowing hard, Forge had no idea what to say that wasn't going to make Dean feel worse other than a lame, "I don't know." As he drove he chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to put pieces together that didn't want to fit.

They finished the short ride in silence. Once inside Dean's motel room, Forge sat at the small table. "Let's think this through. The single most frightening thing to ever happen to Sam was when he was held hostage by the McCreedys who called themselves Abaddon, which is the name of an actual fire demon. When you two were in prison before you were together, and you were together in Del Villar's compound. When Sam was kidnapped he was alone and locked up. He's alone now. So, I'm wondering if his mind is dredging that all back up because if that was more terrifying than this and he survived that, he'll get through this too."

"Then how could the Weasel person know Sam's name and about the killings, particularly Sam's part in the killings?" Dean walked to the other side of the room, leaning on the dresser.

"There are only two answers. Either he really is Abaddon and that demon really was connected with the McCreedys or it's all in Sam's mind."

"I need to find out. I told Sam I believed in him and I wasn't lying. I want to have something to give to him. He'll need it when he gets out. I'm going to figure out who this Weasel guy is, if he exists and how he fits in and find him. I have to do this for Sam."

"How are you going to find a man whose face you've never seen?" Dean fished something out of his pocket and held it out. Forge squinted at it. "You've had that all this time?"

Dean nodded and put the syringe cap back into his pocket. "I found my kid brother after he was kidnapped from a parking lot using nothing but a syringe cap as my biggest clue. I'll work this like any other case. Find out about the land, research the prison and guys named Weasel."

"Weasel is sort of a common prison name," Forge pointed out.

"Can you get me pictures of the inside of the prison, the inmates? Sam said this Weasel guy was in a cell, so he'd have been there longer, right?"

Forge nodded.

"Okay, if he's real, he's in there. I'll find him. That'll help Sam get better when he's out. I know my brother, it'll help."

"Yeah, sure, give me a few hours; I can get something for you." Forge stood and crossed the room to the door. Resting his hand on the doorknob he turned back to look at Dean. "You stay here, in this room."

"I've got a lot of work to do, I will. Promise."

Stepping clear of the room and fishing out his cell phone, Forge didn't doubt they'd find Weasel, if the man existed. Dean Winchester had skills, a scary lot of them, especially where his kid brother was concerned.

An hour later, armed with a stack of photos printed off at the motel office, Forge was back in Dean's room. "Any of these help? What did you find out?"

Dean sighed. "The prison was built in the mid eighteen-nineties. Nothing really out of the ordinary for a prison happened there." He was shuffling through the stack of photos, stopping midway through, pulling one closer to his face, frowning. "Crap."

"What?"

"I know this guy." Dean tapped against the paper. Forge leaned over and looked down at a man working the food line. He was slight, older, wire rimmed glasses sitting on a beak of a nose and sparse hair.

"Huh?" Forge followed Dean across the room to the table where he had his laptop sitting.

"Here." Dean pointed to the laptop screen. They both leaned in.

"Holeeee shit," Forge exhaled. "That can't be right." The caption under the picture informed them the group of men seated on a bench in what looked like an exercise yard were the first inmates, eighteen-ninety-eight.

"Crap!" Dean snarled. "That's the same guy." Clicking on the picture they both sucked in a harsh breath when the names of the inmates in the picture enlarged enough to read them. "Crap! Look at his name. Ephraim 'The Weasel' McCreedy."


	7. Chapter 6

Sam was returned to the pen not knowing how long it would be until he was removed and put in solitary, or if it would actually happen.

_I said it would, you know it will, Sammy_.

He was sitting along the wall, the same spot he'd occupied before in the pen. Gaze flitting around the section immediately in front of him, Sam sought the source of the voice—Dean's voice.

No one was looking at him, now they all carefully avoided him. No one was talking to him either.

"Dean?" he whispered. There was no answer.

Gaze sweeping the room, Sam caught a glimpse of two inmates and a guard near the pen entrance. He recognized the inmates as belonging to one of the bigger gangs. Although he hadn't learned any of the gang names, their tattoos were plain enough. This particular one had a fang tooth dripping blood on each member's forearm. When all three looked at him, one of the inmates grinned, revealing two extra sets of fangs. Smiling at Sam, pointing at him and running one finger over his throat, the teeth slipped back into the man's gums.

Straightening his spine, Sam stared, swallowing hard. He wanted desperately to look away, get up, find something to take the man's head off with and get out of this prison. Instead he sat and stared wide-eyed at the man. When he and the other prisoner with him walked away, they were talking to one another, and Sam got a clear look into their mouths. No extra fangs.

_They retract, can't always tell by just looking_.

"I know that, Dean," Sam hissed attracting the attention of a few of the men close to where he sat. Dropping his gaze to the floor, he slid a few more feet down the wall, pulled his knees up to his chest, arms wrapped around his shins, fingers curling tightly in the material of his pants. He looked around warily, searching out his brother's face in the sea of angry faces he was trapped among.

_They can't see me. I'm in here with you_. Two fingers brushed lightly over Sam's head making him flinch and look up. No one was there, but something had touched him, he was sure. _Sammy, it's okay, just me_. It was definitely Dean's voice, but he couldn't see his brother anywhere. _Sometimes all you can do is survive, Sammy_.

Wasn't that the truth?

"Get up, now," a husky voice growled. His foot was kicked hard enough to make his leg jerk to the side.

Sam looked up at the man, one of the guards, who smiled, extra teeth dropping down for a few seconds before they slipped back up and he pressed his lips together. Sam stood on shaky legs. "Where?"

The guard took his arm, turned and pulled Sam after him. "First stop, the office on this level, then you're going to solitary. Not a second too soon either, get your freak ass out of my area."

Sam stumbled, but caught himself. _Do what he says, Sammy, no hotdog stuff_.

Keeping pace with the guard, Sam was led from the pen to the guard station. The barred, heavy steel door was unlocked and Sam was guided through. Two other beefy guards waited, and as had been done when Dean and Forge came to see him, he was placed in ankle and wrist chains. Not wanting to make eye contact with any of the guards he glanced around. There were computers, an array of monitors showing various camera angles: of the halls, the pen, showers, everywhere. There were a few desks and the normal office coffee pot.

He watched men—inmates and guards—mill around the area near the mess hall. When one guard turned, Sam pulled in a sharp breath. He seemed to look at Sam, eyes glinting bright in the screen. Sam stared at the monitor and for a few seconds the guard stared back. He tried reminding himself the guard couldn't see him, but the man's silvery gaze followed along with Sam when he was told to move away from the monitors.

"Shapeshifter," Sam said softly.

"Shut up," the guard next to him hissed and finished locking the shackles and cuffs.

Sam clamped his mouth shut and looked around the guard station as much as he could without turning his head. They all looked normal, nothing supernatural, but Dean was right, these were things that could blend in easily.

_When they bring you meals, keep your salt_.

Apparently Dean thought he was an idiot, but Sam kept quiet. Dean meant well and just because he wasn't really in here with Sam didn't mean he wasn't just as frightened as Sam. If Dean were in here and Sam on the outside he was sure he'd be more terrified than he was now being in prison.

He was taken down a long corridor behind the guard station to a series of small cells. Three guards and Sam crammed into a cell in the middle of the corridor while one of them removed his chains. A minute later Sam was alone in a seven by seven room with a toilet, cot and sink. Lying down on the cot, Sam stared at the ceiling, mind drifting as he tried working out if what he'd seen was real or his imagination working overtime.

When his meal arrived it was slid through a slot in the door. There was no salt on the tray, nor on the one that came later. He scoured the small room; there was nothing in it he could use as a weapon. The pipes to the sink and toilet were pvc, not copper or iron. The cot frame aluminum.

The third tray of food was brought in, but not put through the slot. The guard clanged on the door, as the others had, for him to come take the tray. When Sam went to the door he stared back at Weasel.

"Think you're safe in here, Sam. Safe from me, from us all?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but sucked in a hard breath instead, backing up a step when Weasel's eyes melted from blue to solid black. "What I saw out there?"

Weasel shrugged. "What, you expected prisons to be free of these things?" He laughed. "Hell, they flock here."

Backing away until his legs hit the cot, Sam dropped onto it, shaking. When he looked up, Weasel was gone. Black smoke filtered under the door. Sam pulled his legs up, hooking his feet on the bed frame, watching intently. It was a demon and he had no way of protecting himself. Sitting perfectly still, Sam moved only his eyes, watching the thing slither and slip around the room. It didn't come near him, he had no idea why. He wasn't afraid of being possessed, he and Dean had gotten tattoos to ensure that, but the demon wouldn't know that until it tried getting to him. That didn't mean it couldn't do plenty of damage in other ways.

He blinked and it was gone. It didn't leave, it was simply gone. Leaning back against the wall, he ran one hand through his hair. He needed Dean, needed his brother so badly right now it hurt.

More food came, more time passed, but Sam had no idea how long. Each time there was a demon flitting through the cell, but never coming near him. Sometimes Dean would stand between Sam and the evil ribbon of black smoke, constantly reminding Sam he was there.

It was when two other inmates appeared outside his door and then somehow came through without opening it that Sam swung into action. Vampires, they showed him their fangs right away. One came at him, teeth aimed for his neck. Gritting his teeth, Sam shouted wordlessly and charged the guy. Grabbing him by the collar, Sam ran him backwards into the wall, pulled back and slammed a fist into his face.

"You're not changing me!" Sam shouted and punched the man again. Pain rocketed up from his knuckles to his shoulder. He grabbed his hand, doubling over and turning away at the same time.

The skin of his fist was split and bloody. Hissing in a breath, he straightened and faced his attackers.

Sam was alone in the cell.

Twisting around to look behind him, no one was there. Blood, his blood dotted the wall where he'd held the man—vampire—and hit him. Except he'd clearly hit the wall.

The cell door swung open and Sam turned to it, watching as guards rushed in. He tried to fight them off, but there were too many. Screaming his rage, swinging he took as many down as he could before a needle was plunged into his shoulder and he collapsed onto the cot, left alone, shivering and staring at the ceiling.

* * *

Dean looked up when Forge's cell phone rang. He snatched it off the dresser, tossing it to the vampire.

Forge caught it and flipped it open. "Forge." He looked up, gaze meeting Dean's and frowned. "He what? You had what done?" All of a sudden Forge was in motion. Crossing the room to the closet he grabbed the priest clothing and tossed them on the bed. "Yeah, yeah, we'll be there." He snapped the phone shut. "They drugged Sam."

"Drugged him? With what? Why? Can they do that?"

"Yes, they can. It was sedatives. Apparently he went nuts in his cell and wailed on the wall, screaming about vampires and demons."

"Do you know the things Sam has seen in his life? What sorts of things he can dredge up out of his head?" Dean made quick work of changing. "This is bad, isn't it? It's starting, or getting worse. Maybe I can…" He had no idea what. Sure, he could calm Sam down, but that was a band aid fix. Once he was gone and Sam was alone again Dean worried everything would simply start back up. "I'll be right back."

"Dean where are you—?"

Forge's voice stopped when Dean ran out of the door. He made a beeline for the Impala, digging through the trunk until he found one of the duffels of clothes he kept in there.

"What are you doing?" Forge sounded confused and a little annoyed. "_Now_ you care about fashion?"

Dean turned and faced him, a belt hanging off one hand. "They'll let me wear this in, right?"

"What?"

"Will they?" Dean shouted.

Forge nodded. Dean pulled his belt off and replaced it with the one he held. Pointing to the buckle, he tried to explain, "See this buckle? It's silver plated."

"So?"

"So, I can leave it with Sam. Trust me, it'll help. It will."

Forge raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He simply returned to Dean's room, collected his badge and keys and rejoined Dean in the parking lot. The look he gave Dean made him wonder if Forge believed him and exactly who he was trying to convince, himself or Forge.

They'd driven half the way in silence before Dean finally spoke. "I'll talk to him; get his head back on straight."

"No," Forge shook his head and spoke quietly. "No, you won't…get his head back on straight that is. Dean, you need to understand, that won't happen until he's out. I'm sorry, but it may never happen."

"He's survived a lot, we both have. We'll get through this. He'll come back to me, be fine in time." It was all Dean had to hang onto. He glanced sideways at Forge whose mouth was pressed to a tight line. Obviously he wasn't as confident as Dean, but then he didn't know Sam like Dean did. No one did. At least Forge had the decency to keep any more of his opinions to himself.

Sam hadn't been lost in a house fire as a baby, or an apartment fire, or the fire in the basement where he'd been held captive. He'd survived attacks and mauling and all sorts of creatures. He'd survive this too. Dean would fix him, no matter how long it took.

Michaels was waiting for them at the prison entrance. The second he laid eyes on Forge the shouting began. "You get that psycho out of here!"

Throwing both hands to the side, Forge got right in Michaels's face, snarling out, "I'll take him this second."

"Yeah, well, Mr-Smartass-Cop as much as I'd love to do that, you know damn well I'd go to prison myself without the paperwork. So where the hell is it?"

Dean slid between the two, honestly afraid Forge was going to pick the guy up and throw him over his security fencing. "We're working on it. Let me talk to him, please. He's talked to me this far, he believes me."

Michaels spun on his heels and this time Dean and Forge were taken not to a conference room, but a hallway behind one of the guard stations. It was a line of solitary cells, Dean saw that right away.

They stopped in front of a door midway down. Dean drew in a deep breath and stood in front of the door, back to it. "Just me. Completely confidential, cameras and recorders off. This man's soul and conscious are breaking and I'm sure he'll confess all his sins to me now."

"I can't allow that."

Dean stepped forward, hands folded in front of him and voice kept calm. "You don't have a choice."

Michaels snorted and shoved Dean to the side, unlocking the door he opened it just far enough Dean could get inside. It was firmly shut and locked behind him. Sam sat on the cot opposite him, watching him like a hawk despite the drugs he'd been given. Dean turned, holding one hand out behind him, signaling Sam to be silent while he watched the light blinking on the security camera. A second later it went out.

"Dean?"

Crossing to the cot, Dean sat on it and pulled the belt off, removing the buckle, he stuffed the rest of the belt into his hip pocket. "Sammy, listen to me, we only have a few minutes."

"You were in here with me before, but you left me." Sam's voice was soft and wet.

Sighing, Dean reached up and cupped the back of Sam's neck, pulling him in so he could rest his forehead on Dean's. "What did you see?"

"In the cameras in the guard station I saw shapeshifters, their eyes did that weird thing they do on camera. And vampires, some of the guards and some other prisoners, they showed me their teeth." The way Sam's voice trembled made Dean's heart clench and want to stop. Letting his hand slide from his brother's neck, he took Sam's hand and pressed the belt buckle into it. "Weasel's eyes are black, like a demon's and he can get in here. Demons can get in here. Or maybe they're not real."

Sam looked down and smiled, fingers clenching around the buckle at once. "It really is you this time."

"It is."

"I gave you this." Sam stared down at the belt buckle. "I got it 'cause the car on it looks like our car."

"And it's silver plated, remember? I want you to hang onto this, keep it out of sight and make sure I get it back or I'll kick your ass. It'll keep you safe."

"Because it's yours."

He reached out and patted the side of Sam's head. "No more beating up the wall. They can't touch you with that in your hand or pocket. Be still, keep cool, use that." He dipped his head at the buckle in Sam's hand.

"When can I leave?" The lost, small voice coming from his brother almost brought tears to Dean's eyes.

"Two more days, tops, I promise." Dean stood up. "No more acting like you're in here killing something, for me."

Sam nodded and watched with liquid eyes as Dean crossed to the door and knocked on it, shouting, "Ready." He wasn't really. Looking over his shoulder at Sam as he left the small cell it was all Dean could do to keep from rushing back, grabbing Sam and running. Giving Michaels his best hard ass glare he ground out, "He'll be fine now. We'll be back with that paperwork tomorrow or the next day."

When they reached the parking lot, Forge put a hand on his shoulder. "Dean, stop, wait, talk to me."

"He's seeing things everywhere: guards, inmates. Demons, shifters, vamps, me."

Forge unlocked Dean's door and jogged to the driver side. "You know," he started after setting in the car. "Statistically it makes sense that prisons would have some of those creatures. Most are violent, why wouldn't one or two be caught and put inside?"

"Not just one or two. According to Sam it's more than a few. That Weasel guy is still after him, too."

Forge's only response was to press the car to a higher speed.


	8. Chapter 7

Dean ignored how Forge glared at him when he slammed more paper into the printer. It'd likely been sheer self-defense when Forge had gone out, returning a short time later with the new printer box under one arm.

Not having to use the motel office printer was a good thing; Dean was so worked up he'd get arrested or at the least tossed out and no doubt still have to buy the motel a new printer.

"Why not shoot it? I bet it'll work faster that way." Forge sat on the end of one bed and rested his chin in his hands. Vampire he might be, but he was certainly keeping his distance from Dean.

"Come on, come on." Dean leaned both hands on the table, thumbs beating against its surface on either side of the printer. When the document was finally finished he yanked it from the printer and turned back to the laptop, stabbing at the keys, starting the next document printing.

"Maybe, Dean—just an idea I'm putting out—I should go this one alone."

Straightening, Dean let his hands drop to his sides. He rolled his shoulders and glared at Forge with enough force that the man sat upright and swallowed. "And you want me to do…what? Sit here and chew my nails? That's _my_ brother in there."

Forge stood and rubbed his palms up and down his thighs a few times. "Yeah, maybe. Dean, you're wound too tightly. It might be better if I went in alone to get Sam."

"You're our friend, even if you are a vampire, but you're not the first vamp I've come across. Note, I'm still alive, they're not. My brother comes out and if you try to get in the way or stop me—I will end you."

"No one wants Sam staying in there, least of all me. You and your brother are the only real friends I have, other than Carter, with whom I don't have to pretend I'm something I'm not. But, if you go in there and don't keep your cool and we get caught, you'll end up just as much a prisoner as your brother."

"Well, then like I said before, if he doesn't come out, I go in there with him."

Forge scratched at his arm for a few seconds and looked around the room before meeting Dean's gaze again. "No, Dean, you won't be in there with Sam. You'll likely be extradited, for real, back to Saint Louis, face murder one charges and the death penalty, and your brother really will be alone in that prison. I'll lose all credibility and any chances we have of freeing Sam. Even if I can get him out, he'll still be all alone and I honestly don't think he's got a snowball's chance in Hell of any recovery if he's left that way."

"I've done my part so far," Dean pointed out.

"If this goes south on us—"

Dean nodded. "I know. We'll just have to be sure it doesn't."

Forge didn't look happy, or even convinced, but Dean ignored that too. If Forge, or anyone else, thought Dean was going to sit in a motel room while someone else went to the prison for Sam they were likely crazier than Sam was at this point.

Dean's head was still spinning around the fact that not only was Abaddon here, and in the same prison as his brother, but there was evidence he'd been possessing an ancestor of the McCreedy brothers for a century or more. Worse yet the demon knew Sam's name, and according to Sam was targeting him. Dean had no idea why or even if it was true, but the photographs were clear. He had no way of knowing how much of it was Sam's continuing degrading mental state or if Weasel was truly stalking Sam and threatening him. Either way, Dean decided, in the end it really didn't matter. Sam was in prison and needed to be out of prison, and he needed to be out _now_.

Forge sat quietly on the end of one bed, hunched over, hands clasped together between his knees, eyes tracking every move Dean made. Dean felt bad, knowing he'd wounded Forge's feelings but he shoved those thoughts and emotions away. He had one priority and one only, getting Sam out safe and alive. Anyone who got in his way would be lucky all they had were wounded feelings.

* * *

Sam sat on the cot, legs pulled up so his feet hooked on the edge, chin resting on his knees and arms wrapped around his legs. Moving nothing but his eyes he watched as the demon, Ruby, in her true form of a black sooty ribbon swam through the air around him. He clenched his fist more tightly around the silver plated belt buckle Dean had brought him, the edges digging into his palm and shooting pains up his arm.

He didn't care. No way was he letting go of his only weapon and protection.

Suppressing a shudder when Ruby slithered close enough to brush over his hair, Sam ducked his head to one side and quietly began reciting an exorcism. The demon smoke retreated, but didn't go screaming back to Hell. Sam squeezed his eyes shut. If she'd been real she'd be gone now.

"You know that won't work on me, boy."

Opening his eyes, Sam blinked at the man—thing—in front of him. He nodded ever so slightly, but didn't say a word, clamping his teeth together to keep them from chattering.

The man stood placidly and blinked back, meekly folded his hands in front of himself, rocked back and forth on his heels a few times and smiled. _Smiled_. "You know who I am."

Sam nodded again, barely getting out his whispered, "Yes." He had no idea how he knew, but he did. Maybe it was part of the man's—_thing's_—power. He took in the sight presented to him. An average sort of man, a few inches shorter than Dean, same dirty blonde hair, though his was slightly curly and cut differently. Soft spoken with a kind smile, the thing Sam didn't expect at all was this man—_thing_—Lucifer, the devil himself was so…_nice_.

He spoke softly to Sam, as if he were worried about frightening him which was ludicrous since the devil terrified Sam.

"W-why me?" Sam stammered and cringed away when the man—Lucifer—reached out with one hand, letting it hover over Sam's shoulder for a few seconds before he dropped it to his side.

Lucifer shrugged. "Why not you? You were handy to Abaddon, a demon with a real grudge against hunters. They don't seem to like you, or your brother. It's only a matter of time before Abaddon gets what he wants."

Shaking his head no, Sam scooted to the end of the cot. "We'll stop them and you."

Chuckling, Lucifer stepped back a pace and looked around the cell. "You don't even know what we want or why."

"Doesn't matter."

"This prison, it's loaded with demons, other creatures that are my kind of folks."

"You're not a demon, you were an angel."

"Oh, Sammy, very good. I always knew you were bright. Must suck, being in here, a hunter in prison isn't much better than being a cop in prison, just not as well publicized." Lucifer sat on the cot and inched closer to Sam. "I can help you. All you have to do is give me what I want."

"I d-don't know wh-what y-you want and even if I d-did I wouldn't g-give it to you."

"No? Are you sure? I can get you out of here. Make sure your brother is always safe." Lucifer slid closer.

Sam was wedged against the corner of the small cell with nowhere to go. Lashing out with the belt buckle he swiped it across the Devil's chest. "Get away from me. You're not a demon and can't possess me. I have to let you in." He yanked his shirt down and exposed his tattoo. "Even a demon can't get in, not again, not ever again."

The Devil put a wounded expression on his face and shrugged again. "Suit yourself. Don't think _I'll_ do anything when Abaddon gets you, catches up to your brother."

Sam opened his mouth to scream at the Devil to go to Hell, but the hilarity of his impending statement hit him and he cackled out short, jerky laughter. He looked around the cell. It was empty. He was alone. No sultry demon of smoke, no Devil, nothing but Sam, a dirty cot and a silver plated belt buckle.

"Not real, not real, not real," Sam chanted under his breath. He oozed to the floor and settled on his knees in front of the cot. Pushing the mattress back he began methodically scraping the belt buckle along the metal frame.

This prison was real. The Weasel was real and Sam was fairly sure Abaddon was real. The McCreedy brothers certainly had been real. The rest he wasn't entirely sure about.

The small piece of metal covering the slot in the cell door slid to the side. Sam turned away from his task and looked up, focusing on it, expecting to see a food tray being shoved through. Instead Weasel's face filled the tiny window and split into a grin that made Sam shiver. He watched Weasel.

Shaking his head slowly, Weasel spoke in measured, quiet words. "You can't escape, Sam. You, Dean, all hunters, I'll get you all eventually. I've nothing but time on my side." He laughed, a low, glass shattering type of sound that grated on Sam's nerves. "Time to be mine."

"No," Sam whispered.

"Yes," Lucifer said, appearing inside the cell and near the door. Leaning down he whispered in Sam's ear, "So afraid of being possessed again. Don't worry, Sammy it'll happen, you can't stop it." He glanced back at Abaddon and nodded to him. Waving one hand in front of him in an arc, Lucifer turned his back to Sam then vanished. In the wake of his arm a splash of flames ignited out of thin air forming a wall of fire between Sam and the cell door. It swirled around before licks of fire escaped out of the small window.

Weasel laughed and stepped away. "Now, Sammy, time for that little job I started a few years ago to be finished. Time for you to burn."

Sucking in a breath, Sam wasn't surprised when the air he gulped down was sizzling hot and scorched his throat. Heat blasted through the cell, the sounds of fire cracking and snapping reached Sam's ears a split second later. Weasel melted away into the flames. Real or not, it didn't matter. Sam's personal version of Hell was surrounding him and it was unlikely he'd ever truly escape.

* * *

Forge readjusted his hands on the steering wheel and glanced sideways at Dean who gripped the envelope full of fake paperwork in both hands. His knuckles were white and the force he held the large envelope with was making Forge's forearms hurt in sympathy.

"You're going to crinkle them all up and ruin them," Forge said quietly.

Dean dropped the envelope to his lap and ran both hands through his hair as if he didn't know what to do with them now that they weren't mangling the innocent papers. "What if they figure out these are forgeries?"

Relaxing his shoulders Forge steadied his nerves; Dean was acting more like the calculating hunter he knew him to be rather than the desperate big brother he was. "Don't forget," Forge began slowly, "they want him out of there as much as we do, just for different reasons. I don't think anyone is going to look very closely at the paper quality or for a watermark."

Swallowing hard, Dean nodded but kept quiet, lips pressed to a tight, pale line. He remained silent during their drive. When they arrived at the prison Dean climbed slowly out of the car and carefully and quietly closed the car door as if he was afraid to draw attention to himself even out here. Falling in step with Forge, Dean's paces were short and clipped; his entire body language spoke of contained power ready for battle at all costs.

Michaels met them at the main entrance and again Forge was amazed at how Dean's entire persona morphed into the pious priest who saw only good in people. Forge was the only one who knew about the smoldering tiger lurking beneath the surface, ready to spring out and tangle with anyone or anything keeping him from his self assigned mission and path to his brother.

Dean held out the envelope to Michaels and with a curt nod said, "I believe, Assistant Warden Michaels, everything is in order."

Michaels nodded in return and motioned them to follow. "This way." He led them to a small observation office near the solitary cells. Once inside with the door closed and locked, he opened the envelope and pulled out the small stack of paperwork, flipping through.

It amused Forge to no end that Michaels glanced up, met Dean's no nonsense stare and took a step back. Forge had to make a conscious effort to bite back his laugh and a sarcastic remark about a simple priest intimidating a maximum security prison warden. Thumbing through, Michaels paused on a few of the documents, but Forge could tell he wasn't reading them, just making a show of it.

"If you…gentlemen…will wait here I'll have Belmont brought here." Michaels smiled one of those fake smiles Forge had seen over the centuries from criminals and law enforcement alike and pulled a chair away from a desk. "Make yourselves—"

Shouts from farther down the corridor were followed by an eruption of gunfire. Alarm lights flashed and the sound of gates dropping into place somewhere out of sight, but not out of Forge's hearing hit him. "What the hell?"

"The yard." One of the guards monitoring the many screens stood up and pointed at the display.

Dean and Forge followed Michaels movements when he twisted around to look at the array of screens. "Crap," Michaels breathed out. Forge distinctly heard the man's heart rate skyrocket as well as how his blood sped through his veins and saw tiny beads of sweat pop out on his forehead, heightening his normal scent to one of near panic.

On the security monitor large groups of men met head on in the exercise yard, bludgeoning and stabbing at one another with makeshift prison-made weapons.

"Detective Forge, you've just been drafted. There are other civilians and visitors, I'm sending them in here, it's your job to ensure their safety." Michaels grabbed the arm of one of the guards standing near him. "Give him your service revolver, you can re-weapon on the way."

The man, pale and slightly shaking nodded and immediately handed over his sidearm to Forge.

"Except for you," Michaels pointed to a pimply kid seated in front of one array of monitors, "everyone else with me."

Before Dean or Forge could comment or ask a question, Michaels and all but the one guard were out the door, lock clicked firmly in place in their wake.

"Ever been in a prison riot?" Forge asked the young guard.

The kid looked up at him, color dropping from his face and shook his head. "Do training simulations count?"

Forge groaned and tapped Dean's arm. "What about you?"

"Movies count?"

The quip Dean offered gave Forge more comfort than the shaking voice of the kid wearing a guard uniform who was obviously hired to handle the technology not the actual prisoners. At least he knew Dean Winchester could hold his own in a fight.

Dean's attention was drawn to the wall of screens. Staring at one, he leaned closer then moved up beside the kid at the computer console. Tapping on the screen he turned to Forge. "Look, there. Sam was right. At least he wasn't hallucinating it all."

"What?" Forge looked at the monitor, seeing nothing but the horror of hundreds of prisoners going at one another.

"Can you rewind that?" Dean asked the kid.

"I—uh—don't know if I should."

"Do it!" Forge snapped.

A few computer keys punched and the image played back.

"Stop, there." Dean was leaning over the kid's shoulder. "See that?" He turned back to Forge. "See how his, and his, and that other guy's eyes glowed funny? That's not a trick of light. Those are shapeshifters."

"They're—" Forge's words stuck in his throat when the man they'd come to know from his pictures as Weasel stepped into the center of the camera lense, crossed both hands in front of him and smiled. He had the distinct impression Weasel was looking right at them, knew they were watching. He couldn't help the garbled gasp and step away from the monitor when the man's eyes filled, becoming inky black.

"Shit!" Dean spat.

The security kid let his head bang against one of the monitors. "Man, I picked a helluva day to stop smoking."

"It's bad for you anyway." Dean patted his shoulder. "You keep an eye on that monitor there, the one just outside this door. Anyone with eyes that do that, you don't let them in."

"What's your name, son?" Forge asked.

"Sh-sherman Banks, sir."

"Well, Sherman, I guess we'll have to make sure you live long enough to start up again." He checked the load in the handgun, stuffed it behind his back and looked over at Dean. "You ready?"

Before Dean could do anything more than nod, an ear shattering whoosh immediately followed by an explosion rocked the floor. Forge didn't need heightened senses to know what that was. At the same time all three of them went to the door, looking out of the small window, scanning up and down the halls. Where two corridors met in a junction they could just make out an orange-red glow.

"The solitary cells are down there," Dean ground out.

Dean was right, they were.

Forge didn't need to add, so was a fire.


	9. Chapter 8

Dean stepped to the side far enough for Forge to get the door open. Nodding at the vampire he slipped out and turned to watch Forge pull the door shut. He heard the distinct sound of the lock clicking back into place, silently wishing Sherman Banks a long and healthy life.

"We gotta get Sam out of there!" Dean shouted as he sprinted down the hall.

Forge grabbed his arm and pulled him to an abrupt stop. "How are you going to get into his cell?"

"I…" Dean looked around. He took a few deep breaths and forced the panic rising like bile through his body back down. "We need to find Michaels, he can get us in."

"He's not far, but how are you going to convince him…" Forge grinned and his words trailed away. "Never mind, I don't want to know." Pointing down the corridor, away from the solitary cells, Forge said, "He's that way."

"How?"

Forge cocked his head to one side and tapped the side of his nose. "Us vamps have some advantages."

Letting Forge take the lead, Dean followed him along the corridor. They ran, dodging around the few men they encountered. This part of the prison hadn't been overrun yet. Dean didn't need Forge's keener hearing to recognize the sounds closing in around them. The fire was driving some away from this area, but once the pen was broken open this whole area would be overrun with things not likely to be as fearful of fire as humans.

From what Dean could judge they were about halfway between the offices and the pen when gunfire erupted in front of them and more explosions rocked the part of the prison behind them. Skidding to a halt, Forge's hand landed hard on Dean's arm and turned him slightly to one side.

One of the guards that had escorted Sam to the meeting room was slumped against the wall beside a door. His legs sprawled across the floor at odd angles. Blood dribbled from his ears, nose and eyes. He was clearly dead. Dean caught a glimpse of two more men wearing guard's uniforms and Michaels just inside the room. One held a shotgun pointed at Michaels.

"Hey!" Dean charged into the room. Using the element of surprise he kicked the legs out from under the closer of the two men and sent him flipping backwards to the floor.

"Father, I thought I told you to—" Michaels' words stopped when the armed guard turned to look and found Dean's fist in his face. His free hand grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and yanked it away. Spinning to look for Forge, Dean saw him in the doorway.

The first downed guard got up, shaking his head and snarled, displaying extra fangs. Dean huffed, rolled his eyes and raised the shotgun, blasting at him. The force from the shotgun hits didn't kill him, but they did drive him back him far enough for Forge to get his hands on him. Fisting both hands in the material covering his shoulders, Forge yanked the man farther from Dean.

Another man, an inmate, barreled into Forge and the guard, causing Forge to lose his grip. The guard grabbed the prisoner and hoisted him up. Dean clearly saw tattoos on each man's arms, different tattoos symbolizing different gangs. Fangs dropped the guard dug into the man's neck. His screaming and kicking stopped when the guard ripped into arteries then snapped his neck.

Michaels gasped and inched away, going farther into the room.

Forge's face scrunched up making his nose wrinkle, and disgust was all over his features. "Really? That's just gross! You know, it's assholes like you who give the rest of us a bad name."

The guard snorted and took two steps toward Forge. Shock then anger registered on his face when Forge didn't do what he probably expected which was to cringe away in horror and run. Dean couldn't help the soft laugh when Forge simply stood there staring the man down.

"Asshole?" The guard sneered and spit at Forge. "I'm no regular guard."

"No shit." Forge raised his hands, waggling his fingers at the man. He bared his teeth, his own fangs dropping down. "Bring it, _asshole_."

Dean's attention turned back to Michaels and the other guard. The latter was still out cold from Dean's punch. Standing over him, Dean leaned down and pulled up his lip, exposing his teeth and extra fangs. Swearing softly under his breath, Dean put the shotgun nozzle to the man's forehead and fired, hoping that was going to accomplish the same thing as decapitating the vampire.

Michaels scrambled away from the body. Dean stepped clear and reached down, grabbing his hand and hoisting him to his feet. Michaels stared down at the guard for a few seconds before turning his gaze to the corridor. "Father?" He looked from the dead vampire, to Dean and the shotgun.

Forge had made quick work of the other guard and was coming through the door.

"It's a rough parish," Dean smirked at Michaels. Taking his arm, Dean towed him toward the corridor. "I need to get to solitary and get Sam out."

"S-sam? Who is Sam?" Michaels recovered, straightened his shirt and pulled away from Dean.

"My brother. You have my brother locked up in there. Belmont! Only he's not Belmont and I don't have time to explain. There is a fire in the solitary section and he's trapped." Dean stepped back far enough he was out of Michaels's reach and held the shotgun up aiming at Michaels's forehead.

"He can open them from the offices we were in," Forge said. He stepped passed Dean and took Michaels's arm. When the warden tried freeing himself Forge's fingers clamped with enough force Michaels hissed out a breath and tried twisting away. "No. We're not the bad guys here and we'll help you, but you got to get his brother unlocked first. See that guy out there? Did you see his extra teeth?" Forge jerked on Michaels's arm for effect and showed his own extra set of fangs. "News flash, vampires are real and in here. You've got way bigger problems than a riot."

"I'll unlock the solitary doors, but first we have to get back there."

Dean nodded and said matter of factly, "We will. If you see anyone on camera with eyes that look silver, those are shapeshifters. You take them out with silver, the vamps you need to behead."

Michaels simply blinked at him a few times before Forge pushed him into a run toward the office they'd left Sherman Banks guarding.

When they reached the office door, Dean looked directly into the camera and pointed to his eyes. "Sherman, let us in."

For a few seconds it seemed as if they weren't going to get back inside, but then the door buzzed and clicked. They were through and it was closed and locked behind them in no time.

"They've been trying to get in, the ones with funny eyes. I've seen them in the monitor. They're all over the place," Sherman was talking fast and pointing at the various screens.

"We know. You just do what I said. We'll you get out." Dean crossed the room, pointing at the various computers. "Which one?"

Freed from Forge Michaels went to one of the computers and typed in commands. A light on the screen flashed from green to red. He pulled a ring of keys from his pants pocket. Removing one he threw it at Dean who caught it out of the air.

"The security is down now. Those doors will only open from the outside, if it won't use that key."

"Got it." Dean pocketed the key. "Anyone else in solitary?"

Michaels shook his head no. "There would have been an alarm at the state capitol. By now the National Guard is probably mobilized and on their way. They'll have the place surrounded in an hour or less. They won't come in unless they think there is no other way."

"There are still real people in here. We need to help get them out," Forge said. "Then let the rest burn with this place." His gaze met Dean's. "You go get Sam, I'll get them out."

"I can't leave," Michaels said.

"You have no choice. Once the Guard gets here they'll need your help and expertise, we both know the blueprints for this place and what it really is are two different things and I'm betting you're more accurate. C'mon, Sherman, we're out of here." Forge pulled the kid from his chair and strode to the door. Turning back to Michaels he asked, "Coming?"

"You're really a vampire?"

Forge nodded and stepped aside while Michaels keyed in the code to unlock the door. "Yep."

"_And_ a detective?"

"Been in law enforcement one way or another since the Boston Massacre."

Michaels squinted at him and Dean saw the man's fingers move in a counting motion. "That was over three-hundred years ago."

"Yeah, it was. And I have to say, this is a first for me. Prison riot with the gangs being vamps and shifters. You should be proud." Forge swung the door open, nodded to Dean and stepped into the corridor. "See ya in a few."

Dean looked at his watch. "If we're not out in two hours…"

Forge nodded. "Same here."

"What do you mean?" Sherman asked.

Michaels took his other arm as they left the office. "Trust me Banks, I don't think we want to know."

A slight salute with the shotgun he carried and Dean headed down toward the section of solitary cells, hoping this wasn't the last time he'd see Forge.

The corridor housing the solitary cells was thick with smoke, but not impassable. Sam's cell was in the middle. At the far end was where the main fire burned, but the building and corridor were constructed of metal and stone. "There's nothing here to burn," Dean mumbled. Flames lapped along the walls, not climbing high to the ceiling as normal.

This was no ordinary fire.

Dean stopped at his brother's cell, pounding one fist against it. "Sammy!" He jerked the small window open and looked inside.

Sam appeared on the other side, swatting at the air next to his head he turned and snapped at the cell, "Get away. Dean? You're not real. Are you real?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm real and I'm getting you out."

"There's a fire. Dean's there's a fire. Get out. Don't burn, I can't watch you burn."

"No one is burning, Sam." Dean set the shotgun against the wall and got the key in the lock and turned. Before he could crank down far enough on the latch to open the door shouting and the sound of footsteps hit him a split second before he was tackled and thrown down the corridor.

"Leave that scum to burn." It was another of the guards Dean had seen with Sam during that first visit.

Bouncing off the floor, Dean went at the guard, swinging. Two prisoners appeared behind the guard. The fact the three appeared to be working together set Dean's nerves on edge and a dozen alarms off in his head. Clasping both hands together, Dean swung, connecting with the guard's face. He reeled backwards straight into the other two.

A few long strides and he was back at Sam's door. His fingers barely brushed the latch when he was grabbed from behind and spun around. Dodging to the left he narrowly avoided a fist to the face. Surging forward he drove his knee into the man's groin. The other inmate and guard were picking themselves off the floor. Dean ducked to the side and snatched the shotgun. Bringing it up he fired directly into the man's middle.

The man staggered backwards but didn't go down.

"Mother—_crap_!" Dean spat and ducked when the man came at him again. Fortunately Dean was faster; this was no vampire, it was a shapeshifter.

When the shifter's fist connected with the solid metal door he doubled over, grabbed his fist and screamed, staggering away. Dean gave him a solid kick for good measure. The fire crept closer. Flames oozed along the walls. The smoke was thickening and the heat was rising despite the fact there was nothing to feed the fire other than the air around them.

The guard and other inmate came at him, forcing him farther from Sam's cell. Shoved into the door of a cleaning closet between the cells Dean's weight crashed through. Tangled in brooms and buckets, Dean struggled to get to his feet as one of the men advanced on him. Just as he reached out for Dean the man's head arched back and he screamed.

Spinning around the man howled and moved forward. Sam, belt buckle in one hand charged him, shouting and swiping at his neck. His eyes were glassy and wild, his hair fanned across his forehead. If Dean didn't know him, he'd be looking for a way to end the man he saw now. The buckle sliced through again and again until the man melted to the ground. Sam pounced, driving a thick wire into the man's eye. The body jerked and jumped around for a few seconds before going still and shuddering into a puddle of foul smelling ooze.

Sam pocketed the belt buckle and had grabbed the shotgun, breaths coming in hard and jerky fits. He brought it up and spun around at the same time. Gun raised he glared at the two remaining men. "I might be crazy, but I'm not stupid and my big brother there," he dipped his head to Dean, "he's the best shot in the world and he taught me. I don't miss."

One of the men took a step forward and Sam fired blowing his head apart. Twisting on his heels he put the final man in his sights. He swatted at the air near his ear and cocked his head away from his own hand. "Shut up," he whispered, "I don't want to kill a person." Looking the man in the eye Sam's voice was small and uncertain. "Please, don't make me."

Flames snapped and snarled around the man's feet. Holding his hands up he looked from Sam to the hall. Sucking in a breath he turned and ran.

Sam turned and looked at Dean, eyes wide, skin pale and he was trembling. Letting his hands drop to his sides he raised one shoulder and wiped at his ear with it. "Go away." The crazed killer of a few seconds ago vanished, leaving a confused and frightened young man in its wake.

"Sam. There's nothing there." Dean moved forward slowly not sure how his brother would react.

"Are you here?" Sam took a few steps toward him. When Dean merely nodded Sam shoved the shotgun at him and threw both arms around Dean. Pressing his face to Dean's neck a few deep, harsh sobs rolled out of him. Dean brought both arms up and held his brother tightly, rubbing his back a few times.

"We've got to get out of here, buddy." Dean pulled away and looked Sam up and down.

Sam nodded and held up the belt buckle. "I didn't lose it and I got these." He dug pieces of wire strung together into the shape of a cross from his pocket. "The bed frame is iron."

Patting the side of Sam's head, Dean grinned. "That's my boy." He took Sam's arm and moved by him. "Time to go."

"Is there a demon here with us, right now?"

Dean looked back at his brother and shook his head. "No."

Offering him an anemic smile Sam's shoulders sagged and he relaxed. "Good. I don't like her and kept telling her to leave me alone. She says knows Satan and Abaddon."

Having no idea what to do with that information, or how to react and doubting it was even real and not imagined Dean nodded and tightened his grip on Sam's arm. The middle of a prison riot where some of the gangs were vampires and shapeshifters and the entire place was in flames wasn't the time or place to sort out what Sam said. He'd worry about it later when they were out and safe.

Giving Sam a gentle tug, Dean picked up speed. Sam offered no resistance, running alongside Dean. The fire followed, snapping and nipping at their heels like some hellish terrier. Twice it skirted around them, driving them in a direction Dean didn't want to go. It forced them to another section of the prison.

Here there were cells, three floors of them. All the doors were open and groups of men were fighting, some armed with makeshift weapons. Again, Dean saw tattoos on their arms. He could pick out three distinct designs. He and Sam kept to the wall, inching along, so far unnoticed by any of the inmates.

"If we can get through there," Sam pointed to an entrance, the gate was swinging open. "It leads to the showers and mess, we can get to the yard from there." The fingers of his other hand closed around Dean's forearm, gripping hard enough it made Dean want to pull away.

He ignored the pain and patted Sam's arm. "Okay. Stay close."

The fire reached into the central area of the cell block forcing the men to scatter. Dean took that minute of distraction to bolt toward the loosely swinging gate and corridor beyond. He wondered, not for the first time, what sort of cosmic force thought it was so damn funny to lock him up somewhere with a panic stricken brother terrified of fire.

Sam's harsh breathing closed in even more and Dean felt his brother press against his back. He didn't have to look back to know the flames were too close. Sam's fear also gave him some sixth sense when it came to fire. He seemed to know from the heat produced exactly how far a fire was from him. Sam was pressing Dean to go faster and get farther from this fire, that was obvious.

Gunfire cracked on the opposite side of the cell block as they ducked through the gate and into the corridor. When Dean stopped and twisted on his heels Sam took the hint and was one step ahead of him, pulling the gate closed.

Sam took one of the wire crosses and jammed it into the lock. "That won't hold forever, but it'll keep this closed and maybe no one will try opening it."

"Yeah, maybe," Dean muttered, not convinced but it wasn't a useless ploy either. Turning them and going in the direction Sam pointed out they'd gone maybe a dozen yards when flames leapt from the floor. Throwing his free arm over his face, Dean skittered back, shoving Sam behind him and forcing him back a few steps.

"Dean," Sam hissed and sidestepped, turning far enough Dean was forced to look behind him. More flames had come through the entrance gate and were slithering along the walls then the floor. They crisscrossed, creating a barrier between the brothers and the gate. Sam's grip clamped down even more. He shuddered and pulled in a ragged breath. The fingers of his other hand curled in Dean's shirt and he whispered one word. "Abaddon."

Dean turned away from the gate. Standing in front of them, hands folded placidly in front of him and a small smile on his face was a man. The flames swirled around him forming a vortex with him as the center, but they didn't touch him.

The same man who'd been in a picture taken over a hundred years before. Dean had seen his picture in the prison security camera feed.

"Dean. Sam. It's about time. I've been waiting." This was who Dean had identified as Weasel.


	10. Chapter 10

Squaring his shoulders, Dean kept his expression neutral and met the man's gaze steadily. Beside and a half step behind him, Dean felt how Sam lost his slouch, despite the nervous way he pulled in a few breaths and trembled. It didn't matter how afraid either of them ever were, they always put up a good front. It was likely Sam's face was stony and blank. Weasel might see the fine tremors running through Sam, but he'd never see fear in either of their faces or eyes.

"How do you know my name?" Dean kept his voice even and low.

Weasel smiled and took a few steps to the side. "Your brother knows, don't you, _Sammy_?"

Sidestepping so he stayed between Weasel and Sam, Dean ground out, "How about you tell me."

Weasel's eyes filled with sooty black. A slow smile spread over his face. "Guess."

"Abaddon," Sam exhaled softly. Weasel nodded.

"Crap, Sam you weren't hallucinating. I'm sorry." The guilt Dean felt was only slightly overthrown by the relief Sam possibly wasn't as damaged as he'd thought.

"I've been inhabiting this meat suit's family line for generations."

"Redding and the McCreedy twins' died, I watched and their bodies were burned."

"There was a lot of smoke and noise in the basement that day. You never noticed me leaving, just another billow of smoke. Don't you remember it? The noise, the roar of the fire? The scorching heat burning your lungs while you struggled so pitifully to free your brother from that cage? I remember it. What a delightful show you both put on."

"Yeah, well, notice we got out," Dean said.

The fire encircling Weasel jumped and snapped. "Notice you're in my trap, again."

The flames brightened and increased in height, driving Dean and Sam back a few steps. Dark smoke billowed up for a few seconds before the fire died down to a stream sliding and oozing around Weasel's feet.

Dean shuddered and behind him he felt Sam suck in a breath and leaned close enough he felt him tremble.

"You hunters think you can defeat us? Your kind has been here for barely a blink of time and mine for eons."

"Yeah, then why us? Why me and Sam?" Dean slipped one hand into his pants pocket.

Weasel shrugged. "Why not you two? You're fun. I can make a statement to other hunters with you two."

"Yeah, you know what else is fun?" Dean cocked his head to one side and put his best smart ass expression on his face.

Weasel spread both hands wide apart for a few seconds before crossing them over his chest and smirking.

"The fact," Dean pulled his hand free, rosary dangling from his fingers, "that my brother has a great memory and priests really know how to accessorize." His other hand digging into his inner jacket pocket, Dean extracted his flask of holy water. Flicking the hand holding the rosary, he slapped at Abaddon with it, followed it with a splash of holy water in his face. "Hit it, Sammy."

He glanced over his shoulder when Sam chuckled, a slow, self-satisfying smile spreading over his brother's face. "I might be crazy, but like I said, not stupid, or forgetful." Reciting the exorcism in a soft voice Sam didn't stop or even slow down when wind picked up inside the area.

Abaddon screeched and raised one hand. Dean was hit dead center in the chest with an invisible force, flinging him back and to one side. He came to a stop with a harsh grunt and solid slam into a wall.

Sam stood his ground, staring at some point on the floor in front of Abaddon, carefully not looking at the fire growing higher and forming a barrier between him and them his voice stuttered and faltered. Pushing off the floor, Dean was on his feet in time to catch Sam as he was flung backwards.

"Keep talking, Sam."

Voice coming out barely a whisper, Sam used Dean as a brace and righted himself, fingers winding around Dean's wrist. Using his free hand, Dean flung the rest of the holy water, hitting Abaddon in the face.

Shrieking, Abaddon staggered backwards. Shoving the flask back in his pocket, Dean grabbed Sam's arm and yanked him in the opposite direction. The high pitched howl from Abaddon rose to eardrum shattering proportions. Smoke poured from Weasel and swirled around the ceiling.

The ribbon of black dropped lower and slithered around them. Digging in his pocket with his free hand, Sam pulled out one of the little wire crosses he'd made. Arm moving in an arc he shouted and swung the tiny cross through the demon smoke. The demon reared back, coiling in on itself before striking forward. Sam swung again, this time reciting more of the exorcism.

Dean swore the damn demon hissed at them, but it retreated to hover along the ceiling.

"That way!" Sam pointed beyond Dean and shoved against his arm, urging him into a run. Not letting go of his brother's arm, Dean bolted along the corridor. Sam tugged on him and they veered right. Demon smoke screamed along the ceiling, right on their trail. Hitting a door, they burst through and to the outside exercise yard.

Ripping away from Dean's grip, Sam swung around and slammed the door shut.

"Sammy, I don't think demons stop for doors."

"They do when those doors are iron and steel."

Dean turned and stared at Sam for a few seconds. He drew in a deep breath, not able to keep the smile from coming out. It dropped off his face in the next second when shouts and gunfire filled the air around them. "We should go."

Sam nodded, looking around before pointing at the far end of the yard. "Yeah. That way."

There had probably been a time when Dean had been happier to see open sky, but he couldn't remember when. Crossing the exercise yard, Sam took the lead and guided the way through the remainder of the prison to the area Dean and Forge had waited when coming to see Sam. There were more people in this area; and most of the fighting was going on here.

Keeping to the wall, Sam pressed his back flat to its surface and inched along. Dean followed right along with him, wondering why Sam immediately took up this position. He looked as if he'd had some practice lately. Only one reason came to mind: Sam had been forced into this sort of move for self preservation. The sooner he and Sam were out of this damn prison the better.

Smoke filtered through a ventilation grate near the ceiling followed by licks of orange and red flames.

"That thing just doesn't give up," Dean grumbled and pushed Sam along faster. "My flask is empty. We have the rosary though, we just need to find more water." Pointing down a corridor, Dean said, "If we keep going that way that's the entrance Forge and I used. The warden said there would be National Guard here in an hour or less. We're running out of time, if they see us they're likely to shoot you as an escapee."

"Find Forge and get out then."

"He was going to work on getting Michaels, that asshole warden, out so he'd be able to give the Guard details on the prison layout and who is where. Forge said the blueprints and the reality are two different things."

Sam nodded, swallowed hard and looked around. They were against a wall close enough to the main entrance of the prison they could see the heavy door. The problem was, so could all the rioting prisoners, vampires and shapeshifters warring it out with one another. To top it off another demon had them in its sites and was closing in again.

Dean was grabbed by the shoulder and spun around. Feeling the sharp sting of a fist to his jaw, his head snapped back. Swearing he lunged forward, landing a solid punch to the face of the man coming at him. Another appeared behind the first prisoner. Dean swung around with one leg, kicking the first man's feet out from underneath him.

The second man threw a punch. Surprise registered all over his face when Dean caught his wrist, twisted and jerked his arm, spinning the man against the wall. Pulling him backwards, Dean slammed him forward again.

"Will you quit screwing around?" Sam snapped, fingers wrapping around Dean's arm. He yanked back, hauling Dean away from the man sliding down the wall to land face first on the ground.

"Out…go…that way!" Dean pointed beyond Sam then took the lead.

They raced along the wall. The double doors to the outside were a few feet ahead. When Sam's fingers were suddenly and forcefully removed from his arm, Dean skidded to a stop and spun on his heels. Cold fear shot through him.

Striking out, swatting uselessly at the cloud of black swirling around him, Sam turned one way then another, hands trying to fend off the demon. His hair fanned out in all directions, as spit and sweat dripped off him from the exertion, his eyes wide and wild. He hurried forward only to be driven back away from Dean and the exit. Even separated by the little space Dean plainly heard Sam's harsh, labored breathing.

Suddenly the demon—probably Abaddon—coiled away and Sam was free. He pushed off into a run. Dean barely had time to process everything before the demon howled and rippled. Thin spears of flame leapt away from the demon smoke, hitting Sam square in the back.

In the next instant Dean watched as his brother was surrounded with wisps of flame. They swirled around Sam, encompassing him completely in a whirlpool of fire. Sam twisted and turned, hands striking out, trying to douse the flames. Or, beat his way through.

Dean got two steps toward Sam before he was grabbed by the shoulder and spun around. He ducked to the side barely in time and avoided a fist to his face.

"I don't have time for this shit," Dean rasped and swung at his assailant. Immediately he knew this was a shifter, not a vampire. No vampire, even an old, slow one was that slow. With a shifter, at least, the fight was fairer. Shifters didn't have the superpower a vamp did. This was a match Dean could win.

Two fast punches, and a solid kick to the shifter's groin for good measure and the thing was down, writhing half-conscious against a wall.

Sam punched and swatted at the flames closing in around him. The sheer panic that must have been boiling inside the kid filled his face.

Dean saw yet another attack coming at him. Meeting the man, dressed in a guard's uniform, head on, the quickest flash of an evil smile and Dean got a glimpse of an extra set of fangs a split second before the vampire lunged at him. Clasping both hands together, Dean swung full force. The attack caught the vamp off guard. His head snapped back, upper body flung to one side. He stumbled backward but didn't fall.

Sam screamed, lurching towards them, flames surrounding him and igniting his clothes. He slammed into the vampire, knocking the creature farther away from Dean before dropping to the floor.

Fumbling in his pocket, Dean extracted the rosary. Gripping it tightly in one hand, he twirled it in circles in front of his face. The vampire snarled, but backed up. Jerking his suit jacket off, Dean threw it over his brother and pounced. Rolling Sam, Dean managed to gain ground toward the exit.

Sam's movements combined with Dean's jacket smothered the flames. Upright again, and scrambling forward, the jacket slipping off him, Sam didn't get more than a few feet when tendrils of fire lengthened and shot through the air. They hit him square in the back. Staggering, but not falling, Sam spun and met his fiery attacker. A soot black cloud rolled through the air at him. In an ever tightening pattern it swirled around Sam. Giving him no reprieve from heat, smoke and flames it once again trapped him.

The vampire was circling around Dean, but staying a few feet back, just out of reach. It wasn't attacking, but it wasn't letting them out either. Two more vamps closed in, surrounding them. Dean turned, facing each one off with the rosary. He kept them at bay, but couldn't force them away.

Sam was driven to his knees, coughing, gagging, sputtering for breath and fresh air. All he was getting, Dean saw, was heat and smoke. Reaching for his brother, Dean's fingers were singed. Small flames jumped at him, keeping him from helping Sam. If he stepped too close to Sam the flames lapped more fiercely at his brother. Stepping away put him directly into the path of an angry mob of vampires.

They were trapped.

A blur flashed in from the corridor leading to the outside. It bowled straight into the vamps. Forge stopped long enough to snarl and display his own set of drop down fangs. Where he'd gotten the narrow shaft of wood gripped in one hand, Dean had no idea. He didn't particularly care either.

In one smooth, swift motion Forge drove the stake into the heart of the closest vampire. Shouting, he yanked it free, spun and as the first was screaming into death the wood was plunged into a second attacker.

Two thick bands of demon soot curled around Sam. Their accompanying fire crisscrossed close enough to Sam to sting and terrify, but not consume him. Snatching the jacket up again, Dean darted forward. Rosary swinging in the other hand he cleared a path through the demons.

Sam's hands reached out. His fingers snagged the jacket and he pulled it over himself. Dean's arm wound around his brother's shoulders tugging him to his feet and close to his side when he felt Sam's knees buckle and his weight start to sink to the floor. Something was wrong, but figuring it out would have to wait until they were away from the prison.

"Watch where you swing that thing," Forge barked and ducked when Dean nearly slapped him across the face with the rosary.

"Don't sneak up on a man like that!" Dean snapped right back. He stuffed the rosary into his pocket and hitched Sam higher up. Stumbling under the added weight of his brother they lurched toward the exit.

Forge darted to Sam's other side, taking some of his weight. He could have carried Sam easily, probably Dean too, but knew better than to try and separate the brothers. When Sam swayed, tripping into Dean they both would have gone down had Forge not had a firm grip. Pride be damned, if Sam lost consciousness or couldn't walk Dean was letting Forge get him out however necessary.

The instant they hit the exit door, Forge swung them in a sharp right. The National Guard had appeared. Dean and Sam would have to hide out somewhere until Forge could get the car to them. Pointing to a gap cut in the fencing, Forge grunted and shoved them at the small hole.

"Nice planning," Dean panted.

Forge barked a short laugh. "Not me, but Michaels promised you two safe passage in return for me getting him out. You've got five minutes to get to those woods. Due east for about a quarter mile and there is a road. I'll meet you there."

Dean wrapped both arms around Sam. "Can you—"

"Yeah," Sam rasped. He was hanging off Dean, fingers scrunched tightly in Dean's clothes and his feet didn't seem to want to go the same direction twice, but he was bearing enough of his own weight they could make it.

Forge got them to the fence. Sam shimmied through the small opening, hissing when the jagged ends of cut fencing gouged along his back and ripped his shirt. He rolled over and kicked his feet in the moist soil, shoving to the other side. The second he was free he reached for Dean. Grabbing firm hold of Dean's wrists, Sam hauled him through.

The fire was spreading through the prison, smoke roiling into the air. It was very likely that the Winchesters and Forge were the only people there who saw the two thick, black ribbons of smoke ripple free and slither away to the horizon. To everyone else the demons looked like any other column of airborne ash.


End file.
